


Dangerous Games

by leonidaslion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dark, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-16
Updated: 2011-01-16
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What better game to hunt... than a hunter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Down!”

Sam dropped instantly at Dean’s barked command and metal sliced through the air where his head had been. The plow blade thunked into the barn’s wall and stuck there, quivering. Then Dean was hauling Sam to his feet and dragging him backwards. Sam floundered, tripping twice before he found his feet again. Dean didn’t release his grip on Sam’s shirt until they were outside, though, and then it was only to toss Sam to the ground.

He landed hard on his arm and winced as the rough impact jarred the cut on his stomach. He was going to kick Dean’s ass for that later. Wincing, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees and looked back over his shoulder. Dean was lying on the ground, muscles lax. The metal bucket that had been flung into his head was still rolling to a stop next to him, side dented.

“Dean!” Sam scrambled over to his brother and shook him. “Dean!” Dean’s head lolled sideways. Shit.

Sam jumped as a pitchfork flew out of the barn and embedded itself in the ground next to his leg, then grabbed Dean’s coat and pulled him out of the line of fire. When he was certain they were safe, he stopped and rolled his brother over onto his back. Felt for a pulse and found one, steady and strong. Good thing Dean had a thick skull.

Dean gave a sudden jerk beneath Sam’s hands and groaned, eyes fluttering open. “Sam?” he asked, reaching up to feel at the back of his head.

“Yeah, man, right here.”

“You okay?”

Sam snorted. Dean had gotten knocked unconscious and he wanted to know how Sam was. Typical. He raised his hand in front of his brother’s face and extended three fingers. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. Held up three of his own. Then folded his index and ring fingers back against his palm.

“Asshole.” But Sam couldn’t help smiling a little when he said it. Winchester rule number 54: if Dean felt well enough to be a jerk, then he was going to be fine. Sam got up carefully, one hand pressed against his stomach. His shirt was sticking to the cut, but didn’t feel soaked, which hopefully meant that it wasn’t too bad. He’d have Dean look at it when they got back to the motel.

“You get the license plate on that Mack truck?” Dean muttered, sitting up.

“Milk pail.”

Dean sighed. “At least it wasn’t another plow. Who knew farmers kept that much dangerous shit in their barns?”

“He probably wasn’t planning on having a pissed off spirit take up residence in it.”

“Yeah, well, then he shouldn’t have killed his partner and stuffed the body in the rafters.” Dean climbed to his feet, eyeing the barn warily. “We can’t go back in there, dude. Trying to get past that thing is like riding one of those stupid bronco machines. You know, if it was homicidal and had a bunch of rusty farm equipment to throw at you.” Sam stared at Dean and Dean scowled at him. “What?”

Sam resisted the urge to comment; it really wasn’t the appropriate moment. “Well, we can’t just leave it here. That thing’s a menace.”

“We’re not going to. Let’s torch it. Old man Ferland must have some gasoline lying around here somewhere.”

“You want to burn down the barn?”

Dean shrugged. “Barn burns, bones’ll burn. With the added bonus of us not having to play dodge ball with White Goodman in there.”

Sam considered arguing—unnecessary property damage and all—but now that adrenaline was no longer flooding through him, his stomach was really starting to hurt. So instead he nodded. “Okay.”

They found a tractor with a full tank and Dean siphoned the gas out into the milk pail that the ghost had pegged him with. It took them six trips from tractor to barn to saturate enough of the outer walls to satisfy him. Sam stood back, watching as his brother used the last of the gasoline to make a lead so that they could ignite the barn without barbequing themselves. Then Dean swung the pail back at the barn and turned to Sam, holding his lighter out.

“You wanna do the honors?”

Sam shook his head. “Right now, I just want to get back to the motel and take some Advil.”

The corners of Dean’s eyes crinkled with sudden concern. “Okay. I didn’t think I threw you that hard. Is it your wrist again?” He bent and touched the lighter to the line of gas, then stepped over to Sam as fire raced toward the barn and up one wooden side.

“My wrist’s fine. Richardson got me with a piece of glass when he jumped us on the ladder.”

“What? Where? Let me see.” Dean took him by the shoulders and turned him toward the growing light of the fire, scanning his body for injuries.

“I’m fine, Dean. Really. Look, it’s just a scratch.” He tried to pull his shirt up and then stopped the movement immediately as he felt something in his stomach tear.

Dean caught his flinch and scowled. “Come on. We’re going. Now.” He swung Sam around again and slipped an arm around his shoulders.

Sam shrugged his brother off, ignoring the twinge of pain the movement sent through his stomach. “We should make sure the barn—”

“Later. I’ll come back tomorrow and check.” Dean hooked his arm around Sam again, more firmly this time. “Christ, Sam, why didn’t you say something?”

“It doesn’t feel that bad…”

“Bullshit. Come on.” They had reached the car and Dean was fumbling in his pocket for the keys.

Sam planted his feet and forced his brother to stop with him. “Dean,” he protested. “That thing just knocked you out. I don’t care how thick your skull is, you shouldn’t be—”

“At least I’m not bleeding all over the place.” Dean released him in order to unlock the door.

“I’m not—”

“Get in the car, Sammy.” Dean’s face was closed, and his voice, hard, left no room for debate. Sam shut his mouth and lowered himself carefully into the passenger seat. Dean was right, anyway: he seemed to be in better shape than Sam was.

Sam watched his brother jog around to the driver’s side and then stop abruptly. He couldn’t see Dean's face, but he sure as hell saw him reach around for the gun hidden at the small of his back. Saw him hesitate, hand ghosting over the gun’s handle. He was about to ask what was wrong when Dean brought his hand back again, empty.

“What was that?” Sam asked as Dean slid into the car.

Dean’s mouth was pressed into a thin line as he wrenched the engine into life. “Nothing.”

“You almost pulled your gun, Dean.”

“I said it was nothing. I thought someone was there, but…” He shrugged. “It was nothing, okay?” he repeated.

But Sam could tell that he wasn’t sure from the way he kept drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He tried to come up with an opening gambit, but it was difficult to think with the burn in his stomach getting fiercer all the time. And then they were back at the motel and Dean was pulling Sam’s shirt away from the wound. Sam’s vision was swimming with black and whatever Dean may or may not have sensed didn’t seem to matter so much anymore.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean tossed a shirt and a pair of pants on the bed and grinned down at Sam. “Morning, sunshine.”

Sam blinked up at his brother groggily, moving before he was fully aware of where he was. Pain ripped across his stomach and he stilled, swearing. Dean chuckled.

“’S not funny, dude. This fucking hurts.”

“Oh, come on, Sammy. It’s not even gonna leave a scar. Let’s go: get dressed and get your shit together. We’re leaving.”

That brought Sam’s head up. “What? Already? Why?”

Turning his back on Sam, Dean shrugged.

“Does this have anything to do with last night?” Sam shoved the sheets aside and reached for his pants, feeling the stitches pull slightly at the motion. They’d hold, though; Dean’s stitches always held.

“What, with Richardson?”

“You know what I mean, man. You’ve been jumpy all week. What the hell is going on?” Dean was silent as Sam struggled into his jeans, so Sam added, “You’re not getting out of this, Dean. Something’s been bugging the hell out of you and I want to know what it is.”

“I can’t tell you, Sam.”

“Bull.” Sam pulled the shirt down over his head and then glared at his brother as soon as he could see again.

“I can’t.” Dean finally turned to face him, and his jaw was clenched. “I’d tell you if I could, dude, you know that, but…” He fumbled to a stop and then grunted in frustration. “I don’t know, okay? There’s just…this feeling, you know? Like last night. I dunno, like someone’s watching.”

“Hendrickson?”

“No. I don’t know. It’s… Dude, my skin’s been crawling since we got here. Do you know how annoying that is? Would’ve left sooner except we had a job. Hell, I would’ve left last night if you weren’t hurt.” He snorted. “Almost left anyway.”

“Okay, you think someone’s watching us,” Sam said reasonably, keeping his voice low and trying to calm Dean down. “So who knew we were coming here?”

“What?”

“You said that this feeling started when we got here. So whoever it is must have been waiting for us, right? Known we were going to be here? It’s a short list, Dean.”

“Well, Bobby gave us the job, so he knows. But Bobby’d never pull a stunt like this. If he wanted to check up on us, he’d call. Aside from him, I don’t think…”

“I told Ellen,” Sam mentioned, remembering.

Dean swore. “Damnit, Sam. I thought we weren’t going to send out the weekly Winchester news bulletin to Harvelle’s anymore. Do you think Gordon was the only psycho out there with a sniper rifle?”

“I didn’t mean to tell her,” Sam snapped back defensively. “We just got to talking and it came up. Ellen wouldn’t say anything to anyone, though.”

“Yeah, well, _someone_ talked and it sure as hell wasn’t Bobby.”

“What about Gordon? He could have tracked us, gotten here so close behind that…”

But Dean was shaking his head. “Gordo’s still in Pendleton making license plates and sending away for soap on a rope. Heh.” He grinned at the thought, posture relaxing.

“Are you sure?” Sam pressed.

“Course. There’s this guard on his block—Sherri—keeps me posted. Sent me a text yesterday. Speaking of, we should really head back that way soon. I promised Sherri I’d take her out. You know, sort of a thank you.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You know, Dean, most people send cards.”

“Yeah, but they haven’t seen Sherri.”

Sam cleared his throat. He didn’t know how he always ended up having these pointless conversations with his brother. “Okay,” he said, reaching down into his bag to grab a sweatshirt. “So it isn’t Gordon. You ever think that maybe you’re imagining this, man? I mean, you were a little tense after that werewolf—”

“Almost took your head off. ‘I’ll be bait, Dean. You hide in the tree and wait until it takes a swing at me.’” Dean snorted. “That was a stupid fucking plan. And I’m not imagining things.”

“Worked, didn’t it? If it makes you feel any better, next time you can be the bait. We can get a little chain of sausages to hang around your neck.”

“Keep it up and next time you can stay in the car while I bag it by myself. I’m _not_ imagining it, Sam.”

“I heard you the first time. I just don’t know what you want me to say. You think we’re being watched. So what?”

“So what?”

“Yeah. I mean, whoever it is hasn’t done anything, have they? If they were really out to get us, there’s been a hundred times this week when they could’ve taken us out. Hell, last night at the barn they had the perfect opportunity. You were unconscious, I was hurt. No witnesses.” He shrugged and zipped his bag shut. “So whatever he, she or it wants, it doesn’t want to hurt us.”

But Dean still looked uncomfortable. “That’s not exactly airtight logic.”

“Dude, when the hell did you get so paranoid?”

“Right about the time _someone_ decided to head off on his own and almost got blown up by Gordo the whack job.”

Dean was never going to let that go, was he. Sam cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, Gordon’s in jail. You said so yourself.” He sighed, hoisting his bag up onto his shoulder. “Look, Dean, I’m not saying that we shouldn’t be careful. But until something happens, or we have some more information, I don’t really see anything we can do here.”

“We can get the hell out of Dodge.”

“I’m packed, aren’t I? And, you know, chances are it’s just something about this town.”

“God, I hope so. Because if it isn’t, I think…” Dean glanced down, and when he looked up again his eyes were nervous. “I think we should maybe call Bobby, get him to run some intel for us.”

“Sure, if it’ll make you feel better, man, but it’s probably nothing.”

Dean’s only answer was a subtle tightening of his lips, and then he turned away, snagging his own bag on his way to the door. “Come on, Sam.”

Sam sighed and followed wordlessly. It was probably nothing, probably just Dean being paranoid and jumpy after the mess with Gordon and that fiasco at the bank, but if it wasn’t… If it wasn’t, then Dean was right: they needed to call Bobby.

Sam almost hoped that it _was_ something—hell, even the demon fucking around with them—because there was another explanation for Dean’s behavior. One he didn’t really want to consider. Of course, that meant that once the idea had popped into his head it wouldn’t leave, and it stayed there the rest of the day, making his chest clench at odd moments.

What if it wasn’t nerves at all? What if everything they’d been through over the past year had finally pushed Dean over the edge? God, what if his brother really _was_ losing it?


	2. Chapter 2

Dean resisted the urge to crane his neck around and instead ducked his head and focused on his food. The line of skin from the back of his neck down to the small of his back felt like it was on fire, prickling at him incessantly. But he’d looked when he and Sam came in and sat down. And he’d looked five minutes later, and then three minutes after that, and there was nothing. Just a couple of families and an old trucker down by the counter and two tired waitresses and, every once in a while, the cook appearing at the food service window. And no one was paying any attention whatsoever to the two young men in the window booth.

But that _feeling_ …

Dean shifted in his seat and scowled. This was driving him nuts. Maybe that was the whole point of it. Or maybe he was just going insane: how about _that_ , friends and neighbors?

Because he’d called Bobby almost two weeks ago, when they rolled to a stop in a new town and the nagging sensation of being watched still hadn’t gone away. And Bobby had set up a run of divination spells through this guy he knew, and the spells had turned up diddly squat. There weren’t any curses hanging over their heads, there wasn’t anything ghostly or demonic trailing them, and there weren’t any nasty spells waiting to activate. And it was really starting to piss Dean off.

Dean moved to look over his shoulder again, stopped himself, and then jumped when one of the kids at the booth in the corner spilled his soda.

“Stop it,” Sam hissed. “People are gonna think you’ve got some kind of mental disorder.”

“I can’t help it, man. This is driving me nuts.” Dean shifted again. “You see anyone?”

“For the hundredth time, Dean, _no_. And Bobby cleared us, so pull yourself together and get over it.” But there was a worried cast to Sam’s face as he went back to skimming the local paper.

Great, even his little brother thought he was losing his marbles.

“I’m not nuts, Sammy,” he muttered, poking his burger with one of his ketchup-soaked fries. Suddenly he wasn’t all that hungry.

“I didn’t say you were.” Sam’s voice was gentle, soothing, and Dean resisted the urge to leap over the table and shake his brother until the kid understood that he _wasn’t_ going crazy, and that there _was_ something going on here. Someone was watching them, damnit, and whoever it was wasn’t doing it for their own health. Wasn’t even doing it to fuck around with them. No, this felt more… _insidious_ than someone’s bad idea of a practical joke. This felt like someone sizing them up, getting a feel for who they were: how they operated. It wasn’t the kind of information Dean wanted anyone to have.

“Check this out, man,” Sam said suddenly, passing the paper across the table. “A girl drowned while hiking in Death Valley.”

Dean glanced at the article and then tossed it back. “So?”

“So… Death Valley, Dean? It’s a desert?”

Dean gave up on his lunch, dropping the fry he’d been playing with. “She got caught in a flash flood, Sam. Or she drowned somewhere else and the killer dumped her body there.”

“What’s with you, man? This is the third job in a row you’ve turned down.”

“And I’m gonna keep turning them down until you can walk without hunching over.”

“My stomach’s fine.” Sam scowled. “And I do _not_ hunch.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do…Damnit, Dean!”

Dean smirked.

“I mean it, man. If this is another one of your stupid attempts to keep me safe…”

Dean could literally _see_ his brother puffing up with righteous indignation. “It’s not, Sam,” he said hastily. “I just…” He sighed and pushed his plate away. “I don’t want to do anything until we know what this is, okay?”

“What _what_ is?” Sam demanded, exasperated.

“This…thing. Whoever’s watching us.”

“Dude, _no one is watching us_. Bobby’s checked. We’ve been on the lookout for anyone tailing us. Hell, I even called Missouri and she came up empty too.”

“You called Missouri?” Dean asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah.” Sam leaned back in the booth and glanced out the window, mouth twisting as though he hadn’t meant to tell Dean about the call and was sorry it had slipped out. Suspicion curled in Dean’s gut.

“When? Why?”

“Thursday. I thought she might be able to, I don’t know, sense something.”

“What’d she say?”

Sam uttered a small laugh. “That she wasn’t a divining rod.”

“Sounds about right,” Dean said, nodding. He kept his voice deceptively casual. “So why’d you call her?”

“I told you, I thought—”

“She might be able to sense something, yeah, yeah. Question is, Sammy, why’d you care enough to call?” Dean felt himself grinning coldly as Sam fidgeted. _Son of a bitch, I was right._

“Cause you’ve been a wreck about this, man, and—”

“You’ve felt it, haven’t you?” Dean interrupted him.

“What? No, I—”

“Come on, dude. Don’t hold out on me here. You felt it too.”

Sam hesitated and then, slowly and unwillingly, said, “There may have been a car. Back in Hawthorne. It was at the gas station and then I thought I saw it again outside the motel.”

“Damnit, Sam, why didn’t you say something?” Dean exploded, and then swallowed as everyone in the diner turned to stare. He turned, offering a little smile and a wave, waited until everyone had gone back to what they were doing, and then leaned across the table, dropping his voice. “What the _fuck_ , Sammy?”

Sam followed suit. “I said _may_ have been, Dean. I wasn’t sure, okay? And I’m still not. You’ve been talking about being followed for weeks. I was probably just picking up on your—”

“That’s crap and you know it. You saw something funny, you should have told me.”

“It was a _car_ , Dean. Not really a shortage of those in Hawthorne. Hell, it may not even have been the same one! You’ve been having these paranoid delusions, and—”

“Delusions? Is _that_ what you think this is? You think I’m playing a few cards short a deck? Is that wh—”

“I think that you’ve been under a lot of stress lately—we both have—and you’re projecting that stress onto—”

“Spare me the psychobabble, Sam.”

“No one’s following us, Dean. Don’t you get it, man? It’s all in your head.”

“You know, I’ve cut you a lot of slack these past few months. I mean, you’re going through a lot, what with your ‘destiny’ and all, but I swear to God I am _this_ close from kicking your ass on principle.”

Sam’s eyes widened a little in shock and Dean winced. Where the hell had that come from? God, this stupid feeling had him so wound up…

But Sam was continuing, his face hard. “Yeah, that’s great, Dean. Violence solves everything, doesn’t it? You have a problem, punch it. If it doesn’t go away, point a gun at it. Works every time, right?”

“You son of a bitch,” Dean ground out, pushing up.

“Can I, uh, get you two anything else?”

Dean froze at the sound of the voice, leaning half across the table, and then pulled himself back. Pressed his back against the seat, trembling with the effort not to move.

Keeping his eyes locked on Dean, Sam said, “I think we’re done here, Amanda. How about you just bring us a check, okay?”

“Here. You can pay at the register.” She tore a page off her pad and put it on the table. Gave them both a stern look, nerves dancing just below the surface. “We don’t want any trouble here, okay? And we’ve got the police on speed dial.”

Dean wanted to answer her, to say something to smooth this over, but he couldn’t seem to remember anything other than cuss words at the moment, so he kept his mouth tightly shut. His brother’s mouth was apparently still working fine, though.

“We’re leaving,” Sam said quickly, fumbling for his wallet.

Dean waited until the waitress left before climbing out of the booth. Standing at the edge of the table for a moment, he tried to get a grip on his anger and couldn’t manage it. He stared at the door, face as blank as he could manage. The last thing they needed was for someone to call the cops in.

“Dean…”

“Shut up, Sam. Just… pay and get your ass outside.” He left without looking back, hands clenching into fists. He wanted to believe that he was just going to yell at Sam when he came out, but adrenaline was singing through him, and the low-grade anger, which had been pulsing through his stomach since he’d first felt the phantom sensation of eyes, had boiled up into cold rage. His muscles were crying out for release, bunched up under the stress and tension of being stalked for the past month.

Dean pushed through the diner’s doors, feeling eyes on him as he went—no mystery this time who was watching him go. He and Sam must have been putting on quite a show in there. He wondered how much the other diners had heard and then decided it didn’t matter. In a few hours, this town was going to be miles behind them.

He reached the Impala and leaned on it, curled his fingers around the edge of the roof and fought to reign himself in. Heard Sam come up behind him a few minutes later and just stand there, waiting. For some reason, that pissed Dean off even more, but he wasn’t giving into it. He was _not_ going to beat the shit out of his brother in the parking lot.

“Get in the fucking car, Sam. And not one word, you hear me?”

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean uttered a harsh, unbelieving laugh. “You _really_ don’t want to be having this conversa—”

“I’m sorry I had to say that, but you’re on edge, and this proves it." He heard Sam edge closer. "A few weeks ago, you never would have let me get to you like this.”

Dean resisted the urge to haul around and shut Sam up with a fist to the face. If he hadn’t wanted to do it so much, he would have. Would have laid into Sam with fists and feet and anything else he could get his hands on. But he wanted it so fucking bad he could taste it, and that was just…wrong.

God, Sam was right. And he didn’t deserve a black eye for telling the truth, even if Dean didn’t really want to hear it. But, of course, now that he was in this state—fucked up and ready to go a few rounds—he wasn’t coming out of it anytime soon.

Dean wrenched the car door open without turning around and dropped into the Impala. “I’ll be back in a few hours,” he spat out, slamming the door. Sam didn’t answer him, didn’t try to stop him as he revved the engine and sped away. And Dean didn’t look back.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean still hadn’t returned two hours later, the waitresses in the diner finally took pity on Sam and let him back inside. He sat down at the counter and ordered himself a basket of fries, which he pushed moodily around until they were cold and soggy. Then he sighed and shoved them away, glancing over his shoulder and out the windows for any sign of his brother.

He hadn’t meant to let things go as far as they had: had sensed that Dean was wound up, but not quite how close to the edge he was. Although that just made this little intervention even more necessary, didn’t it?

So he’d pushed, and he’d dug at Dean where he knew it would hurt the most. And Dean had almost laid into him in the middle of a diner. If that waitress hadn’t shown up, they’d be picking fragments of Sam’s teeth off the floor right now.

Sam resisted a shiver, remembering the way Dean’s face had changed when he started to move: the way his eyes went flat and cold. Dean could be frightening when he was sober and collected, all that fierce concentration of his pointed down the business end of his gun, at whatever evil thing they were hunting that week. But he was terrifying like this: cut loose and on edge with his restraint hanging in shreds, always a heartbeat away from battle frenzy.

And Dean himself couldn’t see it. Or didn’t _want_ to see it, which had always amounted to the same thing. Well, Sam had rubbed his face in it now, and he prayed like hell that it would be enough. Dean was off somewhere cooling down, and when he got back they’d talk this “being watched” thing through rationally. They’d fix things.

 _But what if he’s right? What if something_ is… Sam cut that thought off firmly. There hadn’t been any evidence to indicate that Dean was right. Yeah, Sam had seen a car back in Hawthorne, and he was pretty sure it had been the same car at both station and motel. And it had given him a moment of pause for some reason. But that “reason” was nothing more than Dean’s continuous, contagious paranoia. People owned cars, for God’s sake. They drove them to gas stations, and then they drove them to motels. Hell, he and Dean had done it themselves. This whole thing was just…

Sam’s phone vibrated in his pocket and he sighed. He really wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone right now. He spun on his stool, watching out the window, and waited for the vibrating to stop. The problem with this whole situation was that Sam wasn’t sure how to get Dean to let go of this stupid… His phone was vibrating again.

Sam frowned and dug it out, glancing down to see who was so determined to talk to him. _Dean_. Sam’s stomach dropped. He wasn’t ready for _any_ sort of conversation with his brother, but it would have been easier face-to-face, where he could read what Dean wasn’t saying in his eyes. Still, ignoring him now would just make things worse.

Sam flipped the phone open and held it up to his ear. “Hey, Dean. You on your way back?”

“Mmm, I don’t think he’s quite ready yet.” A man’s voice. Hard and unfamiliar.

Sam straightened. “Who is this? Where’s Dean?”

“Safe.”

“Are you with the F.B.I.? Hendrickson?” Sam had to move fast, figure out where they were keeping Dean, how to get in…

But the man was laughing. “Those fools? Dogs chasing their own tails, every one of them. Although their files are very interesting. Insightful.”

“Who are you, then?” Sam demanded. “And where the hell is Dean?”

“You’ll learn my name soon enough, Samuel. For now, it should be enough to know that I’m the one in control.”

 _Oh my God he has Dean._ Thinking was suddenly impossible, with that one fact crowding everything else out. Sam’s throat constricted painfully as he swallowed. “Where is he?”

“‘Venting’, I believe. He’s in excellent shape. I really didn’t think he’d be able to keep it up this long.”

“What the hell did you do to him?” His brain was starting to work again, and he suddenly felt exposed. There were too many people here for him to have this conversation. He pushed himself off the stool and hurried toward the door, leaving a wad of cash on the counter.

“Temper, temper, Samuel. I haven’t done anything to your brother. Yet.” The man’s voice was easy, amused. It was pissing Sam off.

He shoved the door open and stepped through it. “If you so much as _touch_ him I will personally make sure there won’t be enough left of you to put in a fucking teacup.”

There was a hitch of breath. “You would, wouldn’t you? How very wonderful. You and Dean. Beautiful…perfect.”

Sam’s stomach lurched. The man was crazy. He was fucking insane. But he was an insane man with Dean’s phone. Oh God, _Dean’s phone_. “If Dean’s okay, how did you get his phone?”

“Trade secret.”

Sam spun in a circle, scanning the street as though he’d find this lunatic there or, better, his brother. “What did you do to him?”

“I told you, Samuel: nothing. I could kill him right now, you know, while he’s running in pointless circles, wearing himself out, making himself weak. I wouldn’t even have to get close. It would be quick. He wouldn’t even know anything had happened before he was dead.”

Sam had a sudden image of his brother, jogging somewhere isolated and desolate, and this madman watching him, raising his gun, aiming… “Don’t,” he choked out.

“Oh, don’t worry, Samuel—or is it Sam? It wouldn’t be sporting. And I have the feeling that you two are going to be…special.”

“What the hell do you want?” Sam ran a hand back through his hair. His skin felt like it was on fire, muscles twitching with the need to do something, anything.

“When did your father start training you?” the man asked, ignoring his question. “When you were thirteen? Twelve? Younger? How old were you when you first held a gun, first felt the thrill of the kill? The files are helpful, but in certain areas, they’re a little…lacking.”

“What makes you think I’m going to tell you anything?” Sam ground out.

“You will.” Smug bastard. “We’re going to play a little game, and you want me to choose the right board, don’t you?”

“What kind of game?” There was silence on the other end of the phone, but it was a living silence, and Sam could feel the man there, waiting. Waiting for him to answer the questions he’d asked, maybe, or just shutting the hell up because he felt like it: Sam had no way of knowing.

“What kind of game?” he asked again.

This time, he was answered. “Have your brother give me a call and I’ll tell him.”

And then silence again. But empty this time: dead. The man had hung up. Sam lowered his hand and stared at the phone.

Dean had been right. Someone _was_ following them, had gone so far as to steal the F.B.I.’s confidential file on them, and God only knew what was in that thing. Sam pressed his lips together. His hands were shaking.

What does he want? There was no answer to that question, not yet. But Sam already knew that, when the answer came, he wasn’t going to like it.


	3. Chapter 3

Sam was sitting on the curb at the side of the parking lot when Dean finally pulled back in. He’d driven out of town a ways, pulled over near an isolated section of woods, and proceeded to run himself ragged. Because if he didn’t blow off all that excess energy coursing through his body, then he was going to hurt someone.

He’d been keyed up enough that it had taken a while, and he’d run himself into exhaustion twice, trembling with effort and stomach heaving at the abuse, before he finally felt calm enough to stagger back to the Impala. He was too tired to really feel the eyes on him anymore, although he sure as hell had felt them when he was running. Had been praying for the bastard to show himself so that he could put a bullet between his eyes.

Sam was sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms loosely looped around them. Dean saw him look up at the sound of the Impala’s engine and relax, all the tension flowing out of his body. He didn’t know what the jerk had to be nervous about: it wasn’t as though he was actually going to leave Sam here, no matter how much he was pissing Dean off at present. Dean put the Impala in park and got out of the car. Felt glad he had pushed himself so hard earlier because, as exhausted as he was, a thin coil of anger still stirred in his stomach when Sam got up and started toward him.

“You ever deliberately piss me off again and I _will_ kick your ass from here to Sunday, Sam,” he said bluntly, leaning against the car. It hadn’t come out very strongly—Dean just didn’t have the energy to put behind the words—but he’d meant it. And he hoped Sam understood that.

Sam’s jaw was clenching and unclenching compulsively as he approached, and his right hand was curled into a tight fist. Dean tensed, muscles crying out in protest. Oh hell, he’d gone and worn himself out and _now_ Sam wanted to thrown down.

He sighed. “I’m really not—”

“You were right.”

“—in the mood for…Wait, what?”

“Someone’s been watching us. A man. He called me on your phone.”

“ _What_?” Dean fumbled in his jacket, searching, and came up empty. “Son of a bitch.”

“How did he get it?”

“How the hell am I supposed to know?” He furrowed his brow, thinking. “I had it this morning.”

“Did you have it when you left the diner?”

“I don’t know, maybe? It’s not like I was in the mood to talk to anyone.” Still wasn’t feeling too hot, actually, but at least he wasn’t going nuts, like Sam had obviously believed and he had begun to worry.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sam said awkwardly.

 _Should be, you asshole._ But Dean waved the apology away. “Whatever, man. So who is it? What’s he want?”

“He wouldn’t tell me. He wanted you to call him.” Sam held out his right hand and forced his fist open, uncurling his fingers from around his own cell phone.

Dean snatched the phone and then grabbed Sam’s wrist with his other hand. Sam’s hand was white, with blurred red lines across his palm where the cell phone had been. “Christ, Sammy. What, you think it was gonna run off on you or something?”

Sam swallowed and pulled his hand back. “He was watching you, Dean.”

“No shit.”

“No, I mean he was _watching you_. When he called me. He said you were…were wearing yourself out, that he could just, uh, and I didn’t know where you were and I couldn’t…” Sam’s breath hitched and he made himself stop.

Dean reached out and patted him on the arm. Said reassuringly, “Hey, man, it’s all right. I’m fine, okay?”

“No, Dean, it’s not okay!” Sam shouted. “Because there’s some lunatic out there following us around and we don’t know what the hell he wants!”

Dean glanced around the parking lot, but it was empty except for the two of them, so Sam’s outburst had gone unnoticed. He wrapped one hand around his brother’s arm and led him over to the car. “We’re gonna find out, Sam.”

“And then what? Dean, this guy stole the file on us from the F.B.I. He knows about our records, knows about Dad…”

Well, shit. “Does he know about us? What we do? Or is he talking out of Hendrickson’s ass?” Dean opened the door and Sam let himself be manhandled into the car.

“He didn’t say.”

“Okay then.” Dean tightened his grip on the door and nodded. “We’re gonna go find a motel, get a room, and then I’m gonna call. Get my damn phone back.” His eyes dropped to Sam’s hand, cradled in his lap. The red lines on Sam’s palm were starting to darken, blooming into angry bruises. “We’ll have to get some ice for that,” he added.

Sam nodded. “Yeah, okay.” But his face was drawn, and Dean could tell he was turning something over in that emo mind of his.

It wasn’t until Dean was pulling out of the parking lot, though, that Sam actually cleared his throat and said, softly, “I really am sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean it: what I said about—”

Oh, man, he didn’t want to rehash that shit _now_ , did he? “Forget it. It’s not important.”

“It is, though,” Sam pressed earnestly. “I don’t want—”

“Yeah, well I don’t really care what you want right now, Sam. Just…” Dean sighed, reaching out to snap the radio on. “Just leave it alone.”

AC/DC poured out of the speakers and Sam sat back in his seat, defeated. “Okay,” he said in a small voice that reminded Dean painfully of the pudgy, stubborn child Sam had been. _And you promised to kill him…_

“Shut up,” Dean muttered under his breath. Damn, that thought had a way of sneaking up on him. He ignored the stiff way Sam tilted himself toward the window. Explaining that he hadn’t been talking to Sam would mean bringing up Connecticut and promising to shoot his kid brother, and he really, really didn’t want to go there. Ever.

Dean reached out and wrenched the volume up, let the music wash over him. And studiously didn’t think about anything until he saw the neon blue lettering off to the left, the signpost of his life: _Vacancy_. He signaled and pulled off the road into the motel parking lot.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam was still upset when Dean finally speed-dialed himself on Sam’s cell, but that was okay because Dean wasn’t feeling all that chipper himself. He paced the room as the phone rang, carefully not looking at Sam, who was sitting on one of the beds with a bag of ice cupped in one hand. After the third ring, Dean forced himself to a halt, tried to control his breathing. It was no good going into this thing too pissed off to think: to maneuver.

“Hello, Dean.”

Smug fuck. “Hey, asshole. Sam said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Mind your tongue, Dean, or I’ll have to mind it for you.”

“And I wouldn’t want that, right?” Dean drawled.

“I could care less what you want. But the last time I had to take matters into my own hands, the music stopped. Praises sung to me in a pretty major key, and then…nothing.”

Wow. Sam had warned him that this guy was a few cards short of a deck, but Dean was starting to think it more likely that he was trying to play poker with some kid’s collection of baseball cards. First Gordon, now this nut job. What was it about the two of them that attracted the crazies?

The man seemed to be waiting for something, so Dean cleared his throat and said, “Okaaaaaay.”

“I hope you understand, Dean, I really do. Because I think that you and your brother will sing beautifully together.”

“Well, I’m not really a singer, but Sam does a mean karaoke.” Sam was staring at Dean like he’d grown an extra head and Dean gave his brother a thumbs up.

The nut job chuckled. “A sense of humor, good. Hendrickson didn’t mention that in his file.”

“That’s cause Hendrickson’s got a stick up his ass.”

“Language, Dean. Now I know you’re a bright boy, it says so right here in black and white, so let’s try to remember, shall we?”

Dean snorted. “Can’t make any promises, dude. I’ve always been a slow learner.”

There was a rustling of paper and then the man said, “SATs: 1452. IQ: 123. Not quite as high as Sam’s, but then again, you have other…qualities, don’t you?”

Dean’s mouth was suddenly dry. Not even Sam knew that shit. Not even Dad. Dean had taken the SATs on a fucking whim. He’d trashed the results when they came in the mail. And an IQ test? Dean didn’t remember ever taking one of those lame ass things, although Sam was amusing himself with them online all the time.

“How the hell do you know that?” he demanded.

“I’ve done my homework. Been watching you.”

Dean choked out a laugh. “Yeah, tell me something I don’t know.”

“You sensed me, didn’t you? Yes, I thought you might. There’s something basic about you; in many ways, I think you’re more animal than man.”

Heat flared through Dean’s skull and he drawled, “Boy, you sure drew the jackpot in the crazytown sweepstakes, didn’t you?”

“You don’t want to think I’m insane, Dean. That would be a very serious mistake.”

“Sorry. You’re the poster child for Good Mental Health.”

“Oh, I know how I seem, but imagine, Dean: how do you seem to others? Agent Hendrickson certainly has some interesting things to say about you.”

“Yeah, well, you can’t believe everything you read.”

“No, you can’t, can you. And Hendrickson’s file is so lacking. There’s not one word in here about what you do, not really. And the evidence is all there, staring him in the face.”

“What we do?” Dean repeated carefully. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“Grave desecration. Poaching. Tell me, Dean, does it really count as poaching when you’re hunting werewolves?”

Werewolves. He and Sam had done a werewolf a little over a month ago, in Oregon. “You saw us, didn’t you?”

“Mmm. Poetry in motion. True warriors. Hunters slaying the beast.”

“Yeah, sure. You can find our fan club online.”

Another chuckle, rich and amused. “Oh, this is going to be fun. You’re already much more interesting than any of the others. And I think…I think that with your records, in your situation, you’ll keep this between us.”

“Keep what between us?”

“The game.”

“Yeah, Sam mentioned you said something about a game. Gotta tell you, I’m a Parcheesi man myself.”

“Oh, you’ll like this game. It’s called Hounds and Hares.”

Dean pressed his mouth shut. This was going nowhere good.

“Do you know how to play, Dean?” the man urged.

“Sorry, buddy, not interested.” He shifted his grip on the phone and tilted his head. “Tell you what I am interested in, though: getting my cell back.”

“You really want to take this more seriously, Dean. Remember, there are consequences to every action.”

“You know, I really don’t. Look, here’s what’s gonna happen. You’re going to give me my phone back, and then you’re gonna stay the fuck away from me and Sam.”

“Language. This is your last warning, De—”

“Oh, screw this.” Dean pulled the phone away from his ear and flipped it shut. Sam was on his feet in an instant.

“What’d you do that for?”

The phone started to ring and Dean tossed it down on the bed. “Conversation wasn’t going anywhere.” He grabbed Sam’s arm as Sam reached for it. “Screw him. It’s just some hunter wannabe, fucking around with us.”

Sam’s jaw tightened. “I don’t get you, man. You’ve been obsessed with this for weeks and now you just want to forget about it?”

Dean shrugged, pretending a nonchalance that he wasn’t really feeling. Damned if he was going to keep talking to that freak, though. On the bed, the phone buzzed again, once, signaling a text message. “That was before I talked to him,” Dean continued. “Dude’s off his rocker, sure, but… We can handle him, Sam. I mean, he’s just a nut job.” He barked a laugh.

“I don’t think we should just laugh this off, Dean. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“It’s fine, Sammy.” Dean resisted the urge to drop his eyes: it always gave him away. “Look, we’ll get some new phones, drive around for a bit and lose him.”

The look Sam gave him told Dean that his brother wasn’t buying into that particular solution, but Sam didn’t argue. Walked away silently instead and grabbed his phone. Flipped it open to look at the text message.

“We can swing down through California, hit up L.A. for a bit,” Dean said. He was rambling now, and he knew it, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “Then maybe head east and drop in on Bobby. You know, take a vacation.” Sam glanced up at him, eyes dark, and Dean offered him a grin that he didn’t really feel. “It’ll be fine, Sam.”

“I’m not so sure about that.” Sam passed him the phone.

Dean hesitated before taking it: he already knew that he wasn’t going to like whatever message their stalker had sent them. But his eyes were drawn downward anyways. There was only a single word there, and it filled his mouth with a sour, uneasy taste.

 _Consequences._


	4. Chapter 4

Dean was driving down I-25 in Wyoming, humming along as Zeppelin’s Heartbreaker blasted from the radio, when his phone rang. Two uneventful weeks had passed, and he’d finally begun to relax. The guy had been insane, and pretty damn annoying, but he’d been harmless. And that feeling of being watched hadn’t returned, so it seemed that they’d lost him. All that they were out for the whole unpleasant experience was a couple of phones, and that was no great loss, considering how it could have gone.

So when the phone rang, Dean fumbled the volume down on the radio and pulled it out of his pocket, glancing down at the number. Ellen. Great. Woman hadn’t had his new digits for two whole days yet and she was already calling: probably to bitch about something he’d done. Ever since he’d accused her of ratting Sammy out to Gordon, his relationship with her had been steadily worsening. Not that it had been all that great to begin with.

He tossed the phone into Sam’s lap. “Hey, Sammy,” he said loudly, snapping his brother out of the semi-doze he’d been in for the last hour or so. “Answer that for me, will you?”

Sam drew a hand across his mouth, yawning, and picked up the phone. “Who is it?” Then, glancing at the caller ID, he smirked. “Dude, you are such a wuss.”

Before Dean could protest that he was just being sensible, thanks very much, Sam had flipped the phone open and raised it to his ear. Dean grit his teeth together and focused on the road.

“Ellen, hey; what’s up?” There was a rustling sound as Sam suddenly sat up. “What? Slow down, Ellen, I can’t…” And then, in a completely different tone of voice, “You son of a bitch, if you hurt her—”

Dean jerked his head to the side and almost swerved the Impala off the road.

“Jesus, Dean!” Sam snapped.

Dean swung the wheel and brought them back on track, his heart racing. “It’s _him_ , isn’t it?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Sam was saying quickly into the phone. “I won’t do it again, just don’t…Okay, we…I’ll put him on.” He covered the phone with one hand and said tersely, “Pull over. He’s got Ellen and he wants to talk to you.”

“Fuck,” Dean swore, slamming his foot on the break and jerking the Impala over to the shoulder. He threw the car into park and held out his hand for the phone.

Sam hesitated, fixing Dean with worried eyes. “Don’t piss him off, man. I mean it. That means no swearing, no sarcasm, no—”

“No shit, Sherlock.” Dean snatched the phone out of his brother’s hands. “It’s me,” he said as soon as the cool metal touched his ear.

“Nice of you to join us, Dean. As you can hear, I’ve been busy.” Dimly, Dean heard a woman scream over the line and his hand tightened. Maybe he wasn’t on the best terms with Ellen right now, but she sure as hell didn’t deserve this. He could hear her sobbing, pleading.

“Don’t hurt her, man! Okay? It’s me you want, right? I’m the one who pis—uh, made you angry, so—”

“Yes, you are. And you do remember that I told you there would be consequences, don’t you, Dean?” A gunshot reverberated down the line and the sobs cut off abruptly.

“Motherfucker!” Dean shouted, pounding his empty hand on the steering wheel.

“I’ve warned you about your language, Dean, but I’ll let that one slide. I understand that you’re a little upset right now.”

“Oh, I’ll show you upset, you—”

“Trying for another body, Dean? There’s an awful lot of numbers in that phone of yours, you know.”

Dean bit his lip, hard, to keep himself from saying anything, and held the phone out blindly to Sam. He was staring out the window, but he couldn’t really see anything through the angry, frustrated wash that was filling his vision. Could hear, vaguely, Sam talking; hear his brother’s voice catch as he realized what had happened, but that wasn’t important right now.

Fucking bastard had shot Ellen. Killed her because Dean couldn’t control his own fucking emotions and had hung up on a raging lunatic with a gun. When Dean caught up to him, he was going to make sure that he paid for this. He was going to take that asshole’s gun and ram it… Sam shook his arm and Dean nearly clocked him one. Damn it. He had to calm down.

“What?” he demanded, forcing his throat to unclench.

“He wants to talk to you, man. Says if I don’t put you back on, he’ll—”

“—start turning my contact list into an obit sheet. Yeah, I know.” Dean drew in a deep, shuddering breath and took the phone. “What do you want?”

“For now, I’ll settle for some answers to my questions. Do you think you could manage that?”

Son of a bitch sounded so calm, so fucking superior. Dean wanted to throw his phone through the windshield. He glanced to the side, for a little support, and Sam was climbing out of the car, going to do God only knew what, leaving Dean alone. For an instant sheer panic gripped Dean, and he thought about pulling his gun and ordering his brother back inside. He couldn’t do this alone; what the hell was Sam thinking, where was he going…

“Dean…” The psycho’s voice was heavy with warning.

“Yeah,” Dean choked out. “Okay. Ask.” He could do this.

“Your father, John Winchester. He was like you, wasn’t he? He was a…hunter.” He said the word lovingly, as a caress, and Dean’s stomach turned over.

“Yeah.”

“And he trained you and Sam?”

“Yeah.” Dad and a few others, but if this lunatic didn’t know about them, Dean wasn’t going to enlighten him.

“Your family disappeared after your mother died. Was she killed by something? Is that how it began?”

“Yes.” Dean forced the word out through clenched teeth.

“And how old were you when your father started training you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Don’t lie, Dean.” Sharp, angry. “You’re not very good at it.”

 _Bastard._ “Seven.”

“Good boy. Tell me about it.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Oh, everything.”

Dean could hear the smile in the man’s voice and his vision swam with red. He slammed his fist down on the dashboard, breath coming hard and heart jackhammering in his throat, because it was either that or tell the son of a bitch what he really thought of him. His hand, when he let it drop again, felt hot and swollen. He’d be lucky if he hadn’t broken it.

“I heard that,” the lunatic said. “Temper, Dean. You wouldn’t want to injure yourself. I need you at the top of your game.”

Dean eyed his hand, flexing it carefully. Seemed okay. “Why? What do you want from us?”

“Hounds and hares, Dean, remember?”

“What the—” Dean stopped himself and then continued, “I mean, I, uh, don’t know what that means.”

“I’ll explain it for you, then. You and Sam? You’re the hares. I’m the hound. The hunters turned hunted. Has an interesting ring, doesn’t it?”

“You want to hunt us,” Dean said flatly.

“Oh, yes.” The naked desire in the man’s voice sent a shiver down Dean's spine.

“So, what, is this some kind of survivalist thing? You get your rocks off shooting people?” It was sharp and snide and he knew he shouldn’t, but he just couldn’t help himself. He glanced over his shoulder for Sam: found him standing about ten feet from the car, his own phone to his ear.

“It’s a challenge. You should be flattered; I only choose the best.”

Dean turned back around, licking his lips. “You want a challenge? Then how about leveling the playing field a little. You seem to know all about us; we don’t even know your name.”

“You can call me Simon.”

“That’s not your real name, though, is it?”

“My name isn’t important. No one knows it anyway. They have other names for me. They call me a monster; say that I’m inhuman. But killing is very human, isn’t it, Dean?”

“God— ” Dean swallowed, calmed himself down. “You’re not playing fair. Give us something to go on.”

“I’ve already given you plenty. But I’m feeling generous, and you’ve been very good so far at controlling your tongue. It gives me hope. So. 9286115295.”

Dean ran the number through his head as he scrambled in the glove compartment for a pen and a piece of paper. “928-611-5295,” Dean repeated back as he scrawled the number on the back of a gas receipt.

“See? I knew you were a quick study.”

“Yeah, right.”

Simon chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Now, I have some more questions for you, but I’m afraid they’re going to have to wait until later. Mustn’t keep the lady waiting.”

Wait, what…? Hope flared in Dean’s mouth, bitter. “She’s not…you didn’t kill her?”

“Oh no, she’s quite dead. But I think…I think that she’s looking a little plain. And I want her to look her best when those friends of yours come looking for her.”

“Friends, what…?”

“The ones that Sam has undoubtedly called by now. But don’t worry; I’ll call you later tonight. Then we can talk, just the three of us.”

Dean frowned. “What if we’re not in a chatty mood?”

“Then I can talk to someone else. Do you have a preference, Dean? Should I start at the top and work my way down, or visa versa?”

“We’ll talk.” Damnit. Cocky bastard.

“That’s what I thought. See? With a little motivation, you can be very accommodating, can’t you?”

 _Yeah, you’ll see just how fucking accommodating I am._ But Dean kept his mouth shut: couldn’t think of anything to say to that that wouldn’t get him into trouble. Simon laughed, amused by Dean’s silence.

“Say goodbye, Dean.”

“Goodbye.” _Hope you keel over from a heart attack, you son of a bitch._

“Au revoir.” Then there was the silence of a terminated connection. Dean lowered his hand and stared straight ahead, down the road. He didn’t so much as glance over as Sam slid back into the car.

“They’ve got him, Dean,” Sam said as he shut the door, grimly excited. “I called Ash, and he traced the signal coming off of Ellen’s cell. He’s sending some guys over…What?”

“He’ll be gone before they get there. He knew you called.” Dean dragged his eyes away from the road and met his brother’s gaze. Wondered if he looked just as shell-shocked and hurt. “Said he’ll call us later tonight. He wants to ask us some questions.”

Sam floundered, searching for something—maybe some meaning in this fucked up situation. Finally, looking at Dean with wide, bewildered eyes, he asked, “Dean, what does he _want_?”

Dean dropped his gaze and tossed his cell into the back seat. He couldn’t bear to touch the thing right now. Couldn’t bear to see that vulnerable, confused expression on his brother’s face either. “I think he wants to kill us, Sam.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean drove east for a few hours while Sam scribbled in his notebook and checked in with Ash for further updates. At around three o’clock, Sam hung up with Ash and asked Dean to pull over, voice strangled. Dean did and Sam dove out of the car and puked at the side of the road, muscles trembling. Dean got out and went around and knelt next to his brother, one hand on Sam’s back and a bottle of water in the other. When Sam was ready, Dean handed him the bottle and sat back, wiping his own mouth and trying to prepare himself for whatever newsflash Sam was about to give him. When it came, it was bad.

Simon had skinned Ellen. He’d shot her in the head and skinned her and left the skin tacked up on the wall, wearing Ellen’s clothes. And all Dean could think was, _thank God he killed her first_ , and all he could say was, “Fucking son of a bitch.”

Dean didn’t throw up, but he couldn’t seem to stop shaking so Sam drove. Sam aimed them straight at the Roadhouse until Dean realized what he was doing and almost crashed them trying to get him to turn around. Sam swore at him, crying a little, and pulled the Impala over to the side of the road.

“What, Dean? _What_?” he demanded.

“We can’t, man. I know you want to be there, but if we go, we’re just gonna put them in danger. You want Ash to end up like that? Or Jo?”

“Jo’s not there,” Sam said softly.

“You don’t think she’ll show up when she finds out what happened to her mom?”

“We can’t just…just…Someone has to…” Sam’s eyes were lost, and his hands were clenched in a death grip around the steering wheel. Dean realized that maybe he should have been driving after all.

“Hey,” he said gently. “Hey, Sammy. They’ve got her, okay? They’re dealing with it. There’s nothing we can do to help.”

“He killed her, Dean. He killed her and he sk-ski…” Sam swallowed, unable to get the word out again. “I don’t understand.”

“He’s messed up, man. He’s just…sick, okay? But we’re gonna stop him.”

“We are? Cause last time I checked, Dean, he knows everything about us, and we know fuckall all about him.”

“We’re gonna find out. Here.” Dean fumbled for the receipt with the number on the back and passed it to his brother. “Why don’t I drive for a while? You can call Ash, see if you two geniuses can’t figure out who that number belongs to and why he gave it to us.”

“Does it matter?” Sam asked dully.

“What? Of course it matters.”

“Maybe we should just give him what he wants, Dean. Maybe then he won’t…won’t hurt anyone else.” Sam was staring down at the number, running his fingers slowly across the paper.

Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder hard, digging his thumb in and dragging a gasp from him. “Don’t you _ever_ say that again. Don’t you fucking _think_ it, you hear me?” He shook Sam a little and Sam sat there and took it, tears streaming down his face. “We’re not giving him shit. We’re gonna beat him, Sammy. And I am personally gonna send that sick son of a bitch to hell where he belongs.”

Sam shut up and let Dean switch places with him. He sat in the passenger’s seat and clung to the number and talked to Ash on the phone in low, urgent tones. Dean drove, keeping his eyes on the horizon, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t turn the radio on. He wasn’t really in the mood.


	5. Chapter 5

“Okay, so unless Simon works for Rub-A-Dub-Scrub, it’s not a telephone number.” Sam tossed his cell phone down on the bed next to him and pulled the pad of paper onto his lap. Frowned down at it. “Maybe it’s some kind of cipher.”

Dean watched his brother start scribbling on the paper intently. Sam had taken his earlier admonition to heart and was frantically trying to figure out exactly what kind of clue Simon had given them. Dean, meanwhile, had been trying to figure out exactly where they had picked the psycho up. He glanced at the computer screen and then closed the browser window, turning his full attention on his brother. “What, you mean like all that Zodiac stuff?”

“Yeah, sort of. We’ll be lucky if it’s a simple substitution code, though.”

“Simple?” Dean snorted. “Yeah, sure: maybe if he gave it to us in writing, with all the right divisions and stuff. But how the hell are we supposed to know if it’s two ones or an eleven?”

Sam glanced up at him, surprised. “You know about codes?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Dad only shoved that shit down our throats for twenty two years, man. Besides, it’s kinda cool. Spy stuff, you know?”

Sam frowned, looking back down at his notebook. “We’ll have to check both ways; see which one makes sense.”

“There’s gotta be thousands of combinations there,” Dean pointed out. He was no math whiz, but that was one of the ideas that had stuck with him through the years. Mostly because it had always struck him as really neat that, while there were only two ways to arrange two numbers, if you doubled your base sample group, that amount jumped to sixty-four. Fucking incredible, way things worked sometimes.

He half expected Sam to ask how he could remember something like that and not be able to add up tips correctly most of the time, but Sam only said, “Yup,” and kept writing.

Dean was beginning to think that Sam’s obsession with the number wasn’t any healthier than the defeatist attitude he’d adopted earlier. “And you’re just gonna write them all down on that pad,” he prodded.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. It’ll only take about a week or so.”

 _Sarcasm is our friend,_ Dean thought sourly. He watched Sam write for a moment, and then said, “Okay, I’ll bite. What the heck are you doing, then?”

“Jotting down some algorithms for Ash.” Sam leaned over and grabbed his cell phone off the pillow. “I’m gonna have him run the numbers through a few programs. If it is a substitution cipher, it’s probably also encoded. Anagram, maybe.” He dialed and then held the phone up to his ear, balancing the pad on his knee.

“Ash, hey. Sorry to call again so soon, but I need you to run those numbers again. We think they might be some kind of cipher.” He paused, listening, and then said, “It’s Sam… Sam Winchester? The guy you just talked to?”

Dean smirked to himself and turned his attention back to the computer, reopening the browser. He clicked into his e-mail automatically out of habit, and there were four new messages waiting for him. All from the same address, which he didn't recognize. Leaning forward in his chair, he clicked on the first one.

 _Pick up your damn phone, Dean._

It wasn’t signed, but Dean knew immediately who had sent it. Jo had been calling for hours, practically nonstop. Wanting to talk about her mother, most likely. Wanting to ask Dean how he’d come to be on the phone with Ellen’s murderer when she was killed. And what the hell was he supposed to tell her? _‘Sorry, Jo; I underestimated a lunatic and he killed your mom to get my attention?’_ Yeah. That would go over well.

So he’d employed the tried and true Winchester tradition of avoidance and refused to answer her calls. Had _wanted_ to turn off his phone, but didn’t quite dare in case Simon tried calling. Eventually, Dean had settled for putting it on vibrate and doing his best to ignore the near-continuous buzzing. And then, about thirty minutes ago, Jo had finally given up and the calls had stopped.

Dean sighed, deleted the message, and clicked into the next one.

 _I mean it. Pick up the goddamn phone now._

Delete and click forward.

 _If you don’t pick up, I’ll cut you off from Ash. See how you like being in the dark._

Dean swallowed, glancing up at Sam. Who was still trying to explain to Ash exactly who he was, and getting progressively more confused and annoyed as Ash continued to play oblivious. Shit. Dean quickly clicked into the final e-mail. Swore under his breath as two words popped up on the screen.

 _Last chance._

“Bitch,” he grunted, pushing up from the table and striding over to Sam.

“… _Winchester_ , Ash. Jesus, I was just there about two months ago—” Dean snatched the phone from his brother’s hand and Sam scowled up at him. “What the hell?” Sam demanded.

Dean ignored him and growled into the phone, “You tell Jo that if she doesn’t stop fucking around, that asshole who killed her mom is gonna get away with it. And then you do what Sam said and run the number again.”

“Hey, Dean,” Ash greeted him, voice easy.

“ _Now_ , Ash, or I swear to God, the next time I see you I’ll—”

“She _really_ wants to talk to you,” Ash interrupted.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what—”

“Dean.” Jo’s voice was strangled and Dean could tell that she’d been crying. He shifted uncomfortably.

“Put Ash back on the line,” he said, making his voice gruff. He couldn’t deal with this right now, couldn’t handle Jo’s grief thrust into his face. Avoiding this conversation was the whole reason he hadn’t been answering his phone in the first place.

“You asshole,” Jo snapped. “My mom’s _dead_ , Dean. Some crazy bastard shot her and…and…” Her words choked off wetly and Dean pressed his eyes shut. He resisted the urge to pass the phone off to Sam, who was watching him, one hand curled protectively around his notebook.

“I’m sorry, Jo,” he said, feeling awkward and like the world’s biggest asshole. _Sorry for getting your mom killed. Jesus, I’m sorry._

“Yeah, you’re real sorry, aren’t you? That why you couldn’t be bothered to answer your phone?”

This conversation was about as fun as swallowing shards of broken glass. “Jo, you need to—”

“Do _not_ be trying to tell me what to do,” Jo spat. Dean heard her take a shaky breath and then it was happening: what he’d been dreading. “You know who did it, don’t you?” she asked. “You know why he k-killed her.”

 _Cause I’m a fucking retard, that’s why._ Sam was giving him a wounded, questioning look and Dean had to turn away. The two of them were going to kill him before Simon had a chance.

When she realized that Dean wasn’t going to say anything, Jo added, “Ash said you were…he said you were on the phone with him when he...” She swallowed audibly.

 _Suck it up, Winchester. You made this bed, now you get to lie in it._ “Sam and I are taking care of it."

“Damn it, Dean! Who is it? I want that son of a bitch!”

“You’re not thinking clearly right now, Jo. Just…have a drink. Get some rest. Give yourself some time to—”

“I don’t need ‘time’. I need to do something about it. Please, Dean. I can’t just sit here. Let me…after the funeral, I’ll come with you. We can…we can track him down together.”

“We’ll talk about it when we get there, okay?” He wanted to tell her to put Ash back on the phone. Wanted to just hang up and find some other way of getting the information they needed because if he had to do this any longer he was going to lose it.

“I…yeah, sure.” She sniffed. “When, um…when do you think you’ll get here?”

 _When Hell freezes over._ Dean hesitated, and then said, “Probably not until the day after tomorrow; we’re pretty far out.”

“You couldn’t…can’t you fly in?”

As if the idea of having to look Jo in the face wasn’t enough, now she had to give him _that_ mental image to play with. That’d be the one time he’d be on a plane praying for it to crash. “Uh…”

“I just…I don’t have anyone to help me figure out what to…about the arrangements, and things, and I thought maybe you could…”

Dean winced. This conversation couldn’t be more messed up if it tried. Why the hell was Jo asking him this, anyway? He’d only met her a handful of times: they barely knew each other. “Jo,” he started slowly.

“No, I’m sorry, I…I shouldn’t have asked. Just get here when you can, okay? I’m just shook up a little. With my mom and all, and Ash said it reminded him of this serial killer over in Oregon about a month ago, and—“

Dean’s mouth dropped open. Jo was still talking, but Dean couldn’t understand her anymore. His brain was still stuck on the whole serial killer in Oregon angle. _Holy Christ on a stick,_ he thought faintly. “Gotta go,” he mumbled. “Sorry about your mom. See you in a few days.” He hung up before Jo could say anything else and tossed the phone in Sam’s general direction.

“Was that Jo?” Sam asked softly. “How is she?”

“She wants us to fly over.” Dean dropped down in front of the computer and started typing quickly. For the first time since Simon had called him in the car, he felt a faint fluttering of hope. “Like I’m ever getting in one of those tin cans again.”

He heard Sam shift on the bed, but didn’t look up. “We’re going? I thought we weren’t going. You said it was too dangerous.”

“We aren’t,” Dean said. “I just didn’t want to get into it over the phone. Told her we’d be there in a few days, so I bought us some time, too.” God, Jo was really going to hate him after this. That’d be for the best, though. He wasn’t the type of person anyone wanted to get mixed up with.

“You lied to her?” Sam demanded, sounding shocked and a little affronted.

Dean stared at the computer screen, typing quickly, and said, “What, you think I should have told her the truth? ‘Gee, I’m sorry for getting your mom killed, Jo, but I’m not gonna make it to the funeral cause I’m gonna be kinda busy tracking the son of a bitch down so that he doesn’t nail you to the wall next?’”

Sam was silent and Dean forced himself to glance up at his brother. Sam’s face was white and still, his eyes on the floor. _Great, Winchester. Why don’t you just shoot him? It’d probably hurt less._ He wanted to apologize but couldn’t find the words, and after a minute he went back to surfing the web, searching for the evidence that he was right: that they had the son of a bitch.

He had just navigated onto the North Powder Gazette’s main page when Sam asked, “Is that what you think?”

“What?” Dean clicked on the dropdown menu. Selected “archives”.

“That you’re responsible for Ellen’s death?” Sam clarified. “Because you didn’t know, Dean. Neither of us did.”

Sam’s words hurt more than they should have, and Dean’s shoulders tensed. _Yeah, but I should have known._ Getting into an arguement with his brother about it wasn't going to change anything, though, and it would only upset Sam. So Dean only shrugged and said, “You think Jo’s gonna be that understanding?”

Then the page was loading: September 28th’s North Powder Gazette, and there it was, front and center. Of course it would be their lead story: stuff like that was always big news. Dean drew in a breath. Goddamn, he was right. He felt a grin lifting the sides of his lips, and anger pushed aside the guilt and horror he’d been drowning in. Son of a bitch was going to pay. He was going to pay with fucking interest.

“I think we’ve got the bastard, Sam.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam watched as Dean pulled a napkin across the table and started scribbling on it. He wanted to pursue the conversation they'd been having—wanted to rub Dean’s nose in the fact none of this was his fault, because he knew what his brother was like—but it would have been a waste of time. He could talk himself hoarse and Dean still wouldn't—maybe couldn't—understand. And now that he'd found something, Dean wouldn't even bother pretending to listen to what Sam had to say.

So he let the topic drop for now and got up to peer over his brother’s shoulder. Dean was looking at an online copy of a newspaper: the North Powder Gazette. “Serial Killer Skins Major,” Sam read aloud. North Powder. Now why did that name sound so familiar? “Dean, what—”

“It’s not a code.” Dean twisted and handed the napkin up to Sam. Sam took it with a small frown. He didn’t like the way Dean was smiling: too toothy and wide, the way he smiled right before he was going to fuck something up. He dropped his gaze before he could see what was in his brother’s eyes and looked at the napkin. Dean had written Simon's number on it, with a few additions. Suddenly it didn’t look so incomprehensible.

9/28/(0)6 11/(0)5 2/95

“It’s a series of dates,” Dean announced. “Look, the first one’s the day we were in North Powder, Oregon.” He spun back to the computer and tapped the screen excitedly. “Same day that that major—Thomas Leland—was killed. Paper says that his body was found in his vacation cabin in Powell Woods: same woods we took down that werewolf. I’ll bet _that’s_ where the son of a bitch picked up our trail.”

Sam hesitated. It’d be nice if Dean was right, but… “I dunno, man,” he said. “Maybe it’s just a coincidence. I mean, why start out with a whole date, and then just do months? Why leave out the zeroes?”

“Maybe he just doesn’t like zeroes. Maybe he thinks they’re bad luck. He’s nuts, dude; he’s not supposed to make sense.”

“Okay, so then why switch from giving the full date to just a month?”

“First one’s a marker,” Dean answered instantly. “Tells us we’re dealing with dates instead of a phone number or coordinates. I’m right, Sam; I know I am.”

Sam handed the napkin back to his brother, mind racing. That made sense: lots of ciphers started with a sequence that let you know how to decode the rest. He moved around to the other side of the table and dropped into the empty chair. Leaned forward on his elbows. “Let’s assume you’re right for a minute—”

“Damn straight I am.”

“—why dates? What’s he telling us?”

Dean frowned, drumming his fingers restlessly. “Number’s supposed to be some kind of clue, right? Supposed to tell us who he is?” He stiffened suddenly, his gaze sharpening. “Call Ash back,” he ordered. “Have him run a search through all the newspaper archives he can find for the months of November 2005 and February 1995. Have him check for murders—specifically ones where the victims end up skinned.”

Sam went cold at the implications of that particular search. “You think he’s telling us when he’s killed before,” he said. As if Ellen hadn’t been enough. Hadn’t been too much.

“Makes sense, doesn’t it? Because this?” Dean tapped the computer. “I’m sure he did. We know he was in North Powder the same time we were, because he saw us waste that werewolf, so the date matches up.”

Sam sat back, remembering. Of course, that was where he’d heard the name before. With all the towns they’d seen, it was difficult to keep track sometimes.

“And he said something about majors when I was talking to him the first time,” Dean continued. “I thought he was talking about music—you know, major and minor key—but he meant this guy Leland.”

“Okay.” Sam nodded. “I’ll call Ash. But I hope to hell you’re wrong, man.”

“Why?” Dean looked at him, confused.

“Cause if you’re right, then it means he’s been killing people for over ten years, and no one’s ever caught him. How the hell are we supposed to do what the police can’t?” God, how _were_ they?

Dean tilted his head, eyes dark. “Case you haven’t noticed, Sammy, we do stuff the cops can’t every day.”

“That’s different, Dean. It’s—”

“Like hell it is,” Dean growled, leaning forward. “This asshole kills people—skins them. That makes him a monster in my book. And he’s gonna end up like every other evil son of a bitch we’ve ever hunted. Fucker wants to play, then we’ll play. But it’s gonna be by our rules, Sammy. Not his.”

“And just what are ‘our rules’, Dean? There isn’t an entry in Dad’s journal for psychotic serial killer.”

Dean’s face shut down, but his eyes were burning. “People die like everything else—easier than most of the stuff we hunt.” He glanced down at his hands, looked through them at something Sam couldn’t see. He was smiling again: cold like ice. Hard like stone.

Sam pushed out of his chair and turned away, shivering. He felt sick to his stomach, and for the first time it wasn’t because of what Simon had done to Ellen, but because of his brother’s smile.

Dean had been talking about killing someone in cold blood, and the really terrifying thing was that Sam believed every word.


	6. Chapter 6

Dean was right: there had been unsolved serial murders in Branson, Nevada in February 1995, and again in Lowell, Rhode Island in November 2005. Ash e-mailed them the police records for both cases, as well as any newspaper articles he’d been able to dig up. He’d also included over fifty color photographs of the various crime scenes. Photos of the brutally butchered and skinned bodies of Simon’s victims.

The lunatic hadn’t necessarily waited until they were dead to start cutting on them.

Sam left going through the pictures to Dean. He felt like a coward doing it, but every mutilated body he’d tried looking at had been wearing Ellen’s face, and it was just too much. Too raw. He knew that it couldn’t be much easier for Dean, but his brother just sat at the table, clicking through the files. Sam watched Dean’s face as he examined the photos, watched his expression grow harder and colder with every click.

“Bastard,” Dean said finally, leaning back.

“Are you—”

“Yeah, I’m done.” Dean scrubbed his face with both hands, blinking. “This guy’s a piece of work, Sam. And he’s good, real good. He knows how to kill: how to hurt, too. Make it last.”

Sam wanted to ask Dean how he could tell that just from looking at the crime scene photos and didn’t. He didn’t really want to know. “Anything we can use?” he asked instead.

Dean rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe. Cops thought he was military, right?”

Sam nodded. He remembered reading that in the police reports. “Branson said Special Forces, Lowell thought the navy, maybe.”

“Ex-SEAL. Could be.” Dean clicked around a little, hunting for something, and then said, “Psych profiling says he’s most likely a white male in his thirties.” He grunted humorlessly. “Fucking typical. These guys are like Pavlov’s dogs with serial killer descriptions.”

“Maybe we should get Ash to check through the navy database, get us a list of SEALs,” Sam suggested.

“The term ‘needle in a haystack’ mean anything to you, Sammy?” Dean shook his head, scowling at the computer. “We need something more specific to give him: some way to narrow the field.”

Sam tapped his hand against his knee, considering, and then offered, “He could check the list against people who were living in both places at the time of the murders.”

“You think the cops didn’t do that? They’re pretty slow, but they’re not morons, dude.”

“Maybe they missed something. Maybe they didn’t have access to the records Ash can get his hands on. Christ, Dean, can we try it at least?”

Dean sighed. “Fine, I’ll have him check. Why don’t you go through some of the other files he sent and—”

Dean’s phone rang.

They both froze, staring at it, while it rang again. Then Dean shook himself a little and said, “Answer it, Sammy. Stall the son of a bitch. I’ll call Ash.” He was up out of the chair, switching phones with Sam before he could blink.

Sam stared down at the phone in his hand as it rang, and couldn’t quite bring himself to answer it. Dean swore under his breath and snatched his own phone back. Flipped it open and shoved it against Sam’s ear.

“Dean.” Hearing that voice brought the hopelessness flooding back, and Sam was seeing the crime scene photos again, Ellen’s face on unknown bodies. But, looking up into his brother’s face, he could tell that Dean needed him to take this call. That Dean didn’t trust himself not to piss the guy off again, send him after someone else.

The knowledge that Dean needed him steadied Sam enough for him to grunt, “It’s Sam,” and take the phone from his brother.

Dean shot him a quick, thankful smile, and then went into the bathroom and shut the door after himself. After a minute, Sam could hear him talking to Ash in low tones. He glanced back down at the carpet. Realized that Simon had said something and that he’d missed it. Panic scrambled through his stomach on tiny, sharp claws.

“I’m sorry, I…Dean’s in the bathroom,” he said, praying he hadn’t missed anything vital.

“You sound upset, Sam.”

“I…” Sam shut his mouth. God, what the hell was he supposed to say to that?

Simon chuckled. “I understand, really I do. And I regret having to do what I did today, but it was necessary.”

“Necessary,” Sam repeated dully. His head spun and suddenly he felt the way he had by the side of the road, when Ash had told him how they’d found Ellen. He remembered kneeling, palms pressed against the sun-warmed asphalt as he puked into the dirt. He leaned forward, letting his head hang between his knees, and took deep, calming breaths.

“You needed to understand. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise. Wouldn’t be a challenge.”

“Just…what do you want?” Sam asked. He already knew—Dean had told him—but he asked anyway. He asked because he was hoping that Dean was wrong, that Simon had changed his mind. Fat fucking chance.

“To hunt you. To feel your blood on my hands, see the light go out of your eyes.” Sam must have made a noise because Simon laughed again. “Yes, I see that you understand. Humans are supposed to be the best. Because they can think and reason: they can plan. But I’ve been so disappointed, Sam. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt properly challenged by my little games. I had almost lost hope when the good major proved so tiresomely simple, and then I look out the window, and what do I see?”

Sam pressed his eyes shut.

 _Flash of moonlight on damp leaves. Glinting off of teeth. Shining in fur. Foul, rotten breath rushing past him, growl rumbling through his bones, and then Dean’s gun like a cannon in the night. Sam raising his own gun: the two of them riddling the werewolf’s body with silver. Burning the bones after._

“What did I see, Sam?” Simon prodded.

Sam swallowed. “You saw us.”

“Good man. Yes. I saw you. And you restored my faith in humanity.” Simon was smiling; Sam could hear it in his voice.

“You’re sick,” he choked out.

“So they tell me. And maybe I am. But I’m the crazy man in charge, and you’re going to do what I say, aren’t you?”

Sam swallowed, couldn’t find the words, and then Dean was next to him. Was taking the phone away and pressing his other hand against Sam’s back comfortingly.

“Simon,” Dean said brightly. “Thought you were gonna stand us up.”

The hand on Sam’s back slipped around to his arm and then Dean was hauling him to his feet and dragging him over to the table. Sam could hear his brother talking to Simon as he shoved Sam down into a chair, but he couldn’t concentrate on the words because Dean had left one of the crime scene photos up on the computer, and now Sam was staring at it.

It had been a woman, probably, although there was only a vague lump in the chest area and the lack of certain other body parts to tell him that now. Her face had been removed; her hair hacked short with some kind of knife. There were only a few pieces of her skin clinging to her flesh: thin strips that Simon had either missed or deliberately left behind. Sam could see part of a tattoo on one: a slice of black lines and red and green paint that might have been a flower.

The label on the tab told him that it was Dana Harris’ body he was looking at, but it wasn’t, not really. It was Ellen. They were all Ellen.

Dean must have moved away because now Sam sensed him return, and then something was being pressed into his limp hand. He tried to take whatever it was that Dean was giving him and couldn’t remember how to work his hand. Could only stare at the picture, trying to figure out what kind of flower it had been. Trying not to see Ellen’s eyes, Ellen’s face.

Dean swore and slammed the laptop shut suddenly, making Sam jump. Then Dean was apologizing hurriedly to Simon, saying he’d stubbed his toe. Sam raised his eyes and saw that Dean was glaring at him. He opened his mouth to apologize and then shut it again when Dean reached down and closed his hands around something cold and smooth. Dean’s flask.

Dean made a ‘drink it, you idiot,’ gesture and then dropped into the seat across from Sam. Pulled Sam’s notebook and a pen over and started writing. He was speaking in monosyllables now: yes, no, ten, ghost, knife. Answering questions. Glanced up and saw that Sam was just sitting there, watching him, and made an annoyed face. Pointed at the flask and mimed drinking again.

Sam concentrated and managed to unscrew the top. He tossed the flask back, felt fire burn down his throat and pool uneasily in his stomach. It was probably just a mental thing, but he felt calmer already. Steadier. Dean nodded at him in approval and then shoved the notebook across the table. Sam took another swallow before picking it up and reading it.

dont say anything but weve got him   
kevin mullins   
157 edgewood dr   
barton vt 

Relief flooded through Sam and he slumped a little. Thank God. Now they could just call in the police and let them take care of it. No one else had to die. Dean didn’t have to kill anyone. Sam didn’t need to find out just how far his brother would go—how far he could go. He kicked back another swallow, hand shaking.

“You okay, Sammy?” Sam glanced up at the sound of Dean’s voice and saw Dean drop his phone down onto the table. “He said he’d call again in a few days.”

Sam tightened his grip on the notebook. “We’ve got him?” he asked. “Really?”

Dean nodded and plucked his flask out of Sam’s grip to take a swig himself. “Ash couldn’t find any SEALs who’d been in both towns, but he did find this guy Mullins. Cops cleared him at the time because he didn’t have a military background, but Ash dug a little deeper and his papers are forged: Mullins isn’t his real name. Ash traced the papers down to a man named Nilsson, and _Nilsson_ used to be a SEAL.” Dean smiled a little. “You know how Special Ops love to stick together. Do each other all sorts of favors.”

“So that’s…Dean, are you _sure_?”

“Didn’t tell you the best part. Mullins is some kind of independent security consultant for software companies. He flies all over the country on business. Guess where he was in September.”

But Sam didn’t have to guess. He knew. Mullins had been in Oregon. And right now he was probably booking a flight out of Nebraska. “So we call the police,” he said. “Give them the information.”

Dean stared at him incredulously. “Are you kidding? You want to drop this on the _cops_? You know how long it’ll be before they take their heads out of their asses to verify the info? Mullins will be halfway through my contact list by the time they even bother to question him again.”

“Then what—”

Dean’s sudden grin promised blood. “Get your stuff together, man. We’re going to Vermont.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It didn’t look like the house of a madman. It was a good-sized two-story, white with blue shutters. There was one of those cheesy flags in the garden, for crying out loud. And they were going to break in and kill the man who lived there.

“What if it’s not him?” Sam whispered. He and Dean were hunkered down at the fringe of the woods behind the house. It was dark and they were waiting for the last light in the house next door to go out before heading in.

Dean glanced at him like he was nuts and shifted his weight. “What if it is?” he countered.

“That’s crappy logic.”

Dean shrugged. “Only logic in town right now.” Then, as Sam continued to frown at him, Dean sighed. “Look, if we go in there and he tries to shoot us, then we’ll know.”

“ _There’s_ some real incentive to do this,” Sam muttered. He slipped one hand behind his back, palming his gun. He didn’t have a problem with killing Mullins—not anymore, not after he'd spent the last three nights jolting awake with sweat drenching his skin and Ellen's name on his lips—but he wanted to be sure that they were offing the right guy. And that they were as careful as possible while doing it because he didn’t want to bury Dean over this asshole.

“Now or later, it’s gonna happen eventually,” Dean said philosophically. “Besides, this way we get to see him coming.”

“How do we know he’s even in there?”

Dean jerked his head up at the house, where a faint light was shining in one of the upstairs rooms. Sam wanted to argue that it could be a trap, that just because a light was on didn’t mean anyone was home, but then the light went out next door and Dean was up and moving. “Showtime,” he muttered, slipping out of the tree line.

Sam followed, keeping low to the ground and moving from tree to bush to the back step. He glanced in through the window and could see a security system box, but the light was red, which meant that it wasn’t on. He pulled his gun, nodding to his brother, and then waited while Dean worked at the lock. It was chilly, their breath condensing into tiny clouds, but the temperature had nothing to do with the shivers running through Sam’s body. Not fear either. Anger.

Fact: they wouldn’t be safe until Mullins was dead. Fact: if they didn’t kill Mullins, he would kill them, and possibly more of their friends. Fact: neither of those facts had anything to do with the reason he and Dean were here right now. Fact: Mullins was going to die for what he’d done to Ellen, and then he and Dean were going to bring the fucking bastard’s body back to the Roadhouse so Jo could burn it. They were hunters, and they took care of their own. It had taken Sam a few days of thinking about Ellen to get with the program, but here he was, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t eager to get this taken care of.

Now all he had to do was convince his conscience that his heart was right. Convince his head that being rational in this situation wouldn’t gain them anything. Mullins might have started this, but he and Dean were going to finish it.

The door clicked open and Dean grinned up at him, teeth a bright flash in the night. “We’re in,” he breathed, and dropped the tools back into one pocket. Then he pulled out his own gun, pushing the door open with one hand and peering inside cautiously. After a moment of study, he stood and slipped inside, motioning Sam to follow.

They were in the kitchen, which looked just as normal as the rest of the house, and Sam wondered again if they were in the right place. He jumped as the door swung shut behind him, and Dean glared at him before glancing at the ceiling, gun held tightly in both hands. But there was no sudden sound of feet, no indication that Mullins had heard anything, so Dean finally nodded at Sam and started moving forward again.

Sam ghosted after his brother through the kitchen into the dining room, eyes straining to see past the shadows: to see chairs instead of a man crouched and ready for them. It was so quiet: quiet enough that he could hear Dean breathing. Sam was really starting to get a bad feeling, was starting to think…

Somewhere in the house a phone rang.

Sam glanced at Dean, who raised one eyebrow and shrugged, crouching lower next to the dining room table and looking up toward the ceiling. Sam mimicked him and they waited for Mullins to answer his phone.

Somewhere around the ninth ring, Sam realized that Mullins wasn’t going to pick up. Somewhere around the eleventh ring, his stomach dropped into the floor and all the spit in his mouth dried up. Somewhere around the thirteenth ring, he was moving through the darkened house, following the sound and ignoring Dean’s hissed command to get back here, you asshole.

He found the phone on a small table next to the stairs. Dean had followed him into the hall, and he didn’t say anything when Sam reached out and picked up the receiver.

“Hello?” Sam said hoarsely.

“Sam. Welcome to my home. I’m impressed.”

Sam glanced at Dean, who was swearing under his breath and turning sharply from front to back, trying to determine which way Mullins was going to come at them.

“Sorry I couldn’t be there to greet you properly. But I haven’t been entirely negligent. I left you a gift.”

“What kind of gift?” Sam asked, certain that there was a body in the cellar or upstairs in the master bedroom. That the bastard had somehow gotten his hands on Jo or Ash or Missouri or Bobby and tortured them to death. Left their skinned corpse here for Sam and Dean to find. Then Mullins answered him and of course it wasn’t that simple.

Mullins was laughing as he hung up, and Sam just stood there for a few minutes, staring at the front door not three feet away from him. Staring at the night on the other side of the panel windows, so close he could feel the chill air on his face. Dean finally leaned over and took the phone from Sam, holding it to his ear briefly before hanging up.

“What did he say?” he asked. “Sam?”

Sam blinked at Dean and didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know how to tell him.

Dean snapped his fingers in front of Sam’s face, holding his gun loosely in his left hand. “Hello? Earth to Sam.”

“Dean,” Sam said finally. His voice sounded funny in his ears. Distant. “Did Dad ever teach you anything about defusing bombs?”

Dean frowned, every line in his body going rigid. “No, why?” he answered suspiciously.

“Because this house is wired. Mullins knew we were coming. He waited until we were inside and then he armed it. If we open any of the doors, any of the windows, then the whole thing’ll go up.”

Dean stared at him blankly. “You’re shitting me.”

Sam couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of the front door. Off of the shiny gold doorknob. So close. The air in the hallway tasted like death. “We have four hours to figure out how to get out of here,” he said softly. “Then it blows anyway.”

Dean blinked. “Well, fuck.”

Yeah. That pretty much summed it up.


	7. Chapter 7

There was a black box on a table in the basement. A thick cord of wires ran out of it and into one of the walls. Dean stared at it morosely. “Fuck,” he said again.

“Should we…” Sam’s hands moved toward the box, toward the latch. Dean reached out and clamped one hand on his brother’s wrist.

“Dude, don’t _touch_ it!”

“Well we have to do something, Dean!” Sam glanced down at his watch, scowling. “We only have three hours left.”

“We’re gonna get out of this, okay, Sam?”

Sam snorted. “ _How_ , Dean? Neither of us knows anything about bombs.”

“I know how to make a Molotov,” Dean protested absently. His skin was breaking out in hives, even though he was telling it not to.

“Yeah, cause that’s gonna help. How the hell could Dad never have told us anything about bombs?”

“Monsters don’t generally use explosives, Sammy,” Dean pointed out, but now that Sam had mentioned it, he was kind of pissed about the situation too.

Dad had been a Marine, not a member of the Bomb Squad, but the man must have known something about this kind of thing. He just hadn’t thought that his sons needed to know. Not that Dean should really be blaming him because, in all his years of hunting, this was the first time he’d been one wrong move away from blowing himself up. Still, the whole situation sucked ass. Dean had been looking forward to a little quality time with Mullins, and now it seemed like he wasn’t going to have the chance.

He spun away from the table and kicked at the stairs. “Fuck!”

“Panicking isn’t going to help.” And Sam sounded entirely too calm for Dean’s nerves.

“Then what the fuck are we supposed to do, Sam?” Dean demanded, turning back to face his brother. “Cause unless you’ve got a couple of Explosives 101 textbooks in your pocket, we’re a little screwed here.” Sam blinked at him, mouth dropping open a little, and then scrambled for his coat pocket. Dean raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got a couple of Explosives 101 textbooks in your pocket?” he asked incredulously.

“Better.” Sam pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and turned it on.

“What, you’re gonna call in the bomb squad? Cause then we’re gonna have a problem with Hendrickson, and—”

“That’d be better than dying, wouldn’t it?” Sam answered absently. “But no, I’m not. I’m calling Ash.”

Dean snatched the phone out of his brother’s hands. “Are you _nuts_? I’m not gonna let someone who thinks that a mullet is still a viable hairstyle walk me through defusing a fucking bomb!”

“Don’t be an ass,” Sam shot back, grabbing for the phone.

Dean held it out of reach, moving back a step. “I’m serious, man. He’s great with computers, but the guy knows fuck all about this kind of shit.” He was ready to fight Sam over the phone—he’d call Hendrickson in himself before he let _Ash_ try and fix this fucked up situation—but Sam just frowned at him, annoyed.

“I wasn’t going to have Ash do it, you moron. But he’ll be at the Roadhouse, right? There’s gotta be a hunter there who knows about bombs.”

Oh. Right. Dean relaxed. Glanced at the cell phone in his hand sheepishly. “Um…”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Just call him, okay?”

“I don’t, uh…Yeah, okay.” Dean nodded, then dialed the Roadhouse and waited for Ash to pick up.

Three rings and then there was the familiar drawl. “Y’ello.”

“Ash, it’s Dean Winchester. We’ve got a bit of a situation here. Is there anyone there who knows about explosives?”

“Hey, Dean. Is Sam there?”

“Yeah,” Dean said, frowning. “But the explosives thing is really important. We’re working with a time limit here, dude.”

“Jo’s kinda pissed at you two. She said you said you were coming and then never showed up.”

Dean grimaced. Yeah, he’d run out of time on that front yesterday, and been ignoring calls from Jo ever since. Of course, that was currently the least of his problems. “If you don’t get me someone who knows how to disarm a bomb _right fucking now_ , in a few hours the cops are gonna be picking pieces of me and Sam out of a smoking pit.”

“Oh, uh, why didn’t you say so?” Ash sounded mildly interested now, which was a massive improvement. “Mig might know something.”

“So you wanna put him on?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“And don’t tell Jo I’m on the phone. She’s gonna have to wait to yell at me until I’m not about to explode.”

“Can’t anyway. She’s not here.”

“Not…” Dean’s heart sank. “You didn’t give her the address, did you?” There was silence on the other end of the line and Dean prodded, “Cause you swore you wouldn’t, remember? Bond of brothers, and all that?”

“Uh…I’ll just put Mig on.”

“Ash, if Jo tries to come in here right now, we’re all gonna have a real bad night.”

“She shouldn’t get there for a few more hours,” Ash said helpfully.

“A few more…” Dean was going to kill him. Ash was a dead man walking. “You call her, Ash. Call her and tell her not to come here unless she wants to kill all three of us, you hear me?”

“Jo’s coming here?” Sam demanded, stepping closer. Dean waved him off, turning away. Which put him facing the black box, of course. Yay.

“I can’t call her right now: she’s still in the air.”

“Then call her when she lands. And don’t fuck this up, Ash, cause if you do, I will seriously haunt your ass.”

“Right.” Then, more distantly, Dean heard Ash say, “Hey, Mig? Some guys need some help disarming a bomb or something.”

Mig’s voice, when it came, was gruff. Heavy Mexican accent. “Hello?”

“So here’s the situation. We’re in a house that’s wired to blow if we open any of the doors or windows. Timer on the bomb is set to explode anyway in another three hours. We found a black box in the basement, buncha wires running out of it into the wall. We figure that the explosives are in there.”

There was a moment of silence and then Mig said, “Okay, let’s skip over the part where you were stupid enough to walk into something like that in the first place and go straight to where you shut up and listen to me very carefully. You listening, _hombre_?”

“I’m all ears,” Dean assured him.

“Don’t touch the black box. Don’t touch the wires coming out of the box. In fact, don’t touch _anything_ without asking me first.”

“Okay.” Dean was down with that. No touching the explosive device: got it.

“Describe the box and the wires.”

“The box is about two feet long and a foot wide. Foot and a half tall. It’s got a latch on it, but it doesn’t look locked. The wires are tied together in a bundle. Looks like there’s about ten of them. All black.”

“The house got a security system?”

Dean covered the phone with one hand. “You remember if there’s an alarm on the doors?” he asked Sam. Sam nodded and Dean turned his head back to the phone. “Yeah, there is.”

“You know anything about the _cabron_ who built your bomb?”

“A little,” Dean answered. “What do you want to know?”

“How smart is he? Are we dealing with a thinker here or just some _chorra_ with a coupla sticks of dynamite and a mean temper?”

“He’s smart.” Too fucking smart for comfort. Dean still couldn’t figure out how the bastard had known they were coming. Unless he’d had this little trap set up for years, caught a glimpse of them waiting around outside and decided to put it to good use.

“Okay, then. I want you to ignore the wires coming out of the box. He probably wired the bomb into the security system, so that it'll go off when the alarm does. That’s what the black wires running into the wall are for. You cut any of those and you can kiss your ass goodbye.”

“Okay, so no cutting the wires.”

“How many of you are there?” Mig asked.

“Two, including me.”

“You using a cell phone, _hombre_?”

“Yeah.”

“Put it on speakerphone. I may need both of you.”

Dean sighed and did what Mig had asked, gingerly setting the cell phone down on the table next to the box. “Okay, you’re on.” He offered Sam a humorless smile. “This is Mig, Sammy. He’s gonna save our asses. Say hey.”

“Hey, Mig,” Sam said dryly.

“Which one of you is calmer? And be honest here, hey? No use competing to see who’s got the bigger _cojones_ if you’re gonna blow them off in a few minutes.”

Sam didn’t even hesitate. “Me. I’m doing it.”

Dean’s chest loosened in relief, despite the guilt pooling in his stomach. He was the big brother; he should be dealing with this shit so that Sam didn’t have to. But he didn’t argue because, truthfully, Sam seemed a hell of a lot less freaked out by the prospect of being blow into tiny, bug-sized pieces than Dean was. Also, Sam was better at precision work: his hands were steadier. If Dean tried doing anything, he’d blow them both up for sure. With Sam, they at least stood a chance.

“Okay, _cojonazos_. Open the box.”

Sam stepped toward the table and then froze as Dean snapped, “You just said don’t touch the box.”

“Now I’m saying open it. You gonna argue, _puta_ , or are we gonna defuse a bomb?”

Dean opened his mouth to say something fairly colorful about Mig’s mother, but then caught Sam’s sharp headshake and stopped himself. Pissing off the guy who was responsible for whether or not they lived through this probably wasn’t such a hot idea. “I’m shutting up,” he said simply.

He stepped back as Sam came to stand in front of the box, and then made himself edge forward again. Beads of sweat were forming on Sam’s forehead, and there were tension lines around his eyes and mouth. He gave Dean a quick grin and then put his hands on top of the box. His fingers were steady as he hooked his thumbs under the latch and pushed it up. Dean tensed, expecting to dissolve into a fine red mist at any moment, but the box just sat there. Sam locked his eyes with Dean’s and he lifted the lid slowly.

The box was piled high with white, wax-like bricks that were wired to a small timer that was counting backwards. Currently, the red numbers stood at 2:46:32. 2:46:31. 2:46:30.

Sam looked like he was going to be sick, but he managed a crooked smile. “Well, the good news is we didn’t blow up.”

“Talk to me, _cojonazos_ ,” Mig drawled. “What are we looking at?”

“Bunch of white blocks of something,” Sam said. “I can’t count how many because they’re stacked. More than ten, though. Attached to a timer. There’s six more wires in here, not including the ten that go out into the wall.”

“If I’m right and that’s C-4, there’s probably enough there to leave a good-sized crater in the earth.”

“Thanks,” Dean mumbled. “We’ll keep that in mind.”

“What color are the wires?” Mig asked.

“Black,” Sam answered dully. “They’re all black.”

“That’s the casing. You need to cut the casing—not the wire, just the casing—so you can give me the rainbow.”

Dean’s eye twitched. This crazy son of a bitch wanted Sam to do _what_?

“I don’t…I don’t know if I can do that,” Sam whispered.

“Course you can. And if you fuck up, you’ll never know, right?”

“Oh, great. Thanks for the encouragement,” Dean said bitterly.

“ _Besame el culo, puta_. I haven’t got all night here.”

“Hey, Sam, you hear that? He hasn’t got all night.” Dean leaned down toward the phone. “What the fuck do you think we’re doing here, baking cookies?”

“Dean, shut up,” Sam snapped. He crouched, reached into Dean’s boot and pulled out his switchblade, making Dean yelp because that shit ticked.

“Dude, ask first next time!” he complained.

Sam ignored him, snapping open the blade and staring down at the bomb. “Any tips would be really appreciated,” he said.

“Be careful. And don’t cut the wires.”

“Right,” Sam muttered, and reached into the box. Dean shut his eyes. He wasn’t a pious man—hell, most of the time he and God were pretty much at each other’s throats—but he was sure as hell praying now. He trusted Sam, he really did, but this shit was way out of their realm of expertise. _Please, God. Just don’t let Sammy fuck this up, okay? There’s a psychotic asshole I still need to slice open, so if you could just be a pal and get us out of this, I’d really appreciate it, thanks._

“Shit!”

Dean threw up a little in his mouth and his eyes flashed open. Sam was grinning at him, hands well out of the box. His hair was damp with sweat, sticking to the back of his neck.

Dean spat on the floor and scowled at his brother. “I’m gonna kill you later for that, _Sammy_.”

Sam’s grin dried up. “Sorry. Gallows humor.”

“Yeah, well keep it to yourself.” Dean raised his eyes to the ceiling and waited for his heart to decide it wasn’t going to explode, but for some reason he felt a little saner in his head. A little clearer. Adrenaline rushes tended to have that kind of effect on a guy.

“Blue, purple, red, orange, green and blue again,” Sam announced.

“Okay, my best guess is green.”

“ _Best guess_?” Sam’s hand around the switchblade was white with tension.

Dean knew the feeling. “I thought you were supposed to know about bombs!” he shouted at the phone.

“I do, _hombre_ , but it’s kinda tough to tell you what wire to cut when I can’t actually see the device, you know?”

“How certain are you about the green wire?” Sam wanted to know.

“Seventy percent,” came the instant reply.

“So there’s a thirty percent chance that I’ll blow us up if I cut it.” Sam’s voice was flat, but his eyes were haunted.

“Hundred percent chance you’ll blow up if you don’t do anything,” Mig pointed out.

“Yeah, okay,” Sam grumbled. He glanced over at Dean, mouth set in a thin line. “Hey, Dean, I…”

“Yeah, Sammy. Me too.” Dean edged closer, heart pounding in his chest. “Just do it.”

Sam dipped his hand into the box and cut the wire.


	8. Chapter 8

“Mig is awesome,” Dean announced for what felt like the hundredth time.

Sam shot his brother an annoyed glance and then went back to riffling through Mullins’ desk. For the past two hours, it had been ‘Mig is great’ and ‘Mig is a fucking genius’. According to Dean, Mig practically shit gold and pissed beer. And not one word of thanks to Sam for not screwing up: for not running out the front door the way he’d wanted to as soon as Mullins had told him about the bomb. Sometimes, his brother could be an ungrateful bastard.

“You find anything yet?” Dean asked, coming over to join Sam at the desk. He’d been going through the shelves, examining the books and Hummel statues— _Hummel_ , for Christ’s sake—that were displayed there.

Sam shook his head. Resisted the urge to shove Dean back out of his personal space when his brother leaned over Sam’s shoulder. It was just a stress reaction, just nerves from almost blowing up a few hours ago, and he knew he’d regret it if he actually gave into the impulse.

“What the hell kind of psycho is this guy?” Dean muttered, plucking a piece of unopened mail from Sam’s hands. The envelope had Pre-Approved! stamped across the front in bold red letters. Dean turned it over and then dropped it again, humming under his breath. Then he pulled open one of the drawers Sam had already gone through and poked around in it. Sam forced himself to take deep, calming breaths.

“I’m totally taking Mig out for a drink when this is over,” Dean commented. “Hell, I’ll buy him a fucking keg.”

“Blow me,” Sam muttered. It slipped out before he could stop himself and he winced internally as Dean stiffened beside him.

“Come again?”

Sam sighed. _In for a penny…_ “Dean, could you just shut up for a minute? Just for one minute, could you just shut up and not say anything?”

“What crawled up your ass and died?” Dean demanded.

Sam laughed, and it came out a little hysterical. “ _We_ almost did, Dean,” he said. “Two hours ago we were as good as dead, or do you not remember the huge fucking bomb in the basement?”

Dean scowled at him. “Chill, dude. We’re fine. Mig came through: you cut the right wire. We’re good.”

Sam wanted to shake his brother. Wanted to scream at him, _But I almost didn’t! I almost ran out the front door, almost fumbled the knife, almost killed us both!_ He swallowed the words, dropping his head and balling his hands on the desk.

“Hey, you okay?” Dean’s voice was hesitant: equal parts concerned and uncomfortable. Sam was obviously making him nervous, acting like this. _Pull yourself together, idiot._

He straightened and paced away, wiping one shaking hand across his mouth. _Just a little post-traumatic stress,_ he told himself. _Be fine in a minute._

“We’re okay, Sam,” Dean said reassuringly from behind him. “And we’re gonna _be_ okay, you hear me? We’re gonna take this son of a bitch down hard.”

Sam wished he could believe Dean, but God, he felt so worn out. So fucking tired. He was starting to think that maybe it would be better to let Mullins win, as well as easier. Because death at a madman’s hands was preferable to whatever else was waiting for him: whatever the demon had in store. He sank into one of Mullins’ red leather armchairs and rubbed at his forehead.

Sam would have been perfectly fine with dying if he hadn’t been worried about Dean’s state of mind. He’d seen how Dean was after Dad died. Knew that he was one of the last things holding his brother together. That he was the only other person Dean really had because Dean didn’t do casual relationships and they’d never been in one place long enough to build anything concrete with someone. And if ( _when_ ) Sam died, if ( _when_ ) Mullins got to him, he was afraid that Dean would just…just lose it.

“Dean,” he choked out suddenly. “Dean, you have to promise me, man. Don’t…” He swallowed thickly and then continued, “If I’m not there when you…when you get to him, just…just kill him, okay? Don’t do anything else. Don’t…” _Don’t let him turn you into something you’re not. Don’t let it destroy you._

Dean was crouched next to Sam in an instant, gripping his arms tightly. “Don’t talk like that, man. You’re gonna be fine. We’re gonna waste his ass together. You and me, all right?”

“I don’t…I don’t feel fine, Dean.”

The corner of Dean’s mouth tilted up sardonically. “Yeah, me neither. But we can do this, Sammy. He’s just a person: we’ve killed loads of more dangerous shit.”

But Sam wasn’t so sure. He thought that maybe Mullins had been right: that people were more dangerous than any of the other things you could hunt. Because you went after a vamp or a ghoul and it did the same thing every time: followed instinct and nature. People had a way of being unpredictable, though: of turning and disemboweling you when you expected them to shake your hand. Sam thought that he and Dean had never been this outmatched. They weren’t used to hunting people: hadn’t expected the bomb. They wouldn’t be ready for whatever Mullins threw at them next.

Dean shook him a little and Sam realized that he’d spaced out. “What?” he said numbly.

Dean’s eyes were wide, frightened. “Don’t give up on me, man. Not now. I can’t…I can’t do this without you, Sam.”

Sam smiled a little in spite of himself because this routine was old and familiar, worn smooth with use. “Yes, you can,” he said, and Dean’s line was supposed to be ‘Yeah, but I don’t want to,’ and then they would stare at their hands awkwardly and let it drop and that would be that.

But Dean just _looked_ at him, face pained like something was breaking inside of him. And just as Sam was getting ready to tell him to ‘take a picture, it’ll last longer,’ Dean surged up and punched him in the face. Sam tumbled out of the chair and Dean came after him.

Sam fought back out of instinct, and managed to land a few good ones on his brother before Dean kneed him in the groin. Then it was all he could do to breathe, rolling onto his side and curling up on himself protectively. His eyes watered, and he groaned as Dean kneeled on him, pushing him into the carpet.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean snarled. “You don’t get to do this, you hear me? You don’t get to wuss out on me.”

“Fuck you,” Sam gasped, and anger stirred in his stomach. Dean had punched him. Had _punched_ him in the fucking face and then kneed him in the balls and that shit wasn’t right because it _hurt_ , damnit. Dean pressed Sam’s head more firmly into the carpet, tightening his grip. Sam tried to buck him off but the angle was all wrong and the bastard was heavy.

“Fuck _you_ , Sammy.” Dean’s voice was rough and harsh as he growled in Sam’s ear. “You’re a selfish prick, you know that? You want to bitch and moan, fine. You want to mope and sulk from one end of the country to the other, fine. But you _do not_ give up. _Ever_.”

Sam managed to get his hands underneath his chest and shoved up, knocking Dean backward. Then he scrambled up, ignoring the heavy ache in his groin, and turned to drop down on top of his brother. Dug his knee into Dean’s stomach, driving his brother’s breath out in a low cough.

“You asshole,” Sam snapped. The anger, hot and sharp, had spread, singing through his body.

Dean glared up at him. “Still want to lay down and die?” he challenged.

Sam glowered, but the answer to that question was instantaneous and simple. No, he didn’t. He was too pissed, and now that he thought about it, not with Dean. Not really. Sam was angry with himself for letting Mullins get to him. With Mullins for putting them in this fucked up position in the first place. Beating the crap out of Dean wasn’t going to change any of that. He pushed himself up and stood over his brother, chest heaving as he tried to calm himself down.

Dean lay where he was and panted, rubbing at his stomach. When he’d caught his breath again, he groaned out, “Dude, you weigh a ton. I think you ruptured something.”

“You kneed me in the balls, Dean; you don’t get to complain.”

Dean winced and then nodded. “Point taken.”

Sam reached down and pulled him up, steadying his brother with one hand. His jaw was starting to hurt, where Dean had clocked him in the first place, and he touched it gingerly. God, Dean hadn’t been pulling his punches, had he?

“I should kick your ass,” Sam muttered.

“Sorry about the face,” Dean said. He gestured vaguely in the direction of Sam’s crotch. “And the, uh…”

“Sorry about kneeling on you.” Sam hesitated and then added, “And about…before.”

Dean just shrugged, but there was a relieved gleam in his eyes. “So, uh, are we good?” he asked. And trust Dean to be able to spew all sorts of personal shit and ultimatums at Sam while he was shoving his face into the floor and not be able to ask what he really wanted to know when they were just standing around talking.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed. “We’re good.” Knew that Dean heard the silent ‘ _I’m_ good' in answer to his own unspoken question.

Dean nodded once, decisively. “Okay, then. Let’s finish checking this place out and then hit the road. I don’t want to be here when Jo shows up.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean kept stealing glances at Sam as he drove; couldn’t seem to help himself. The kid was out like a light, snoring softly with his head pressed against the window. Sleeping, he looked peaceful: all the lines in his face loosened and those wounded, weary eyes closed. There was a bruise purpling his chin where Dean had punched him, but Dean couldn’t really see it because the long, deserted stretch of highway they were on was dark. Apparently, they didn’t believe in streetlights in northern Vermont.

He wasn’t sure where he was going, and he didn’t know what he was going to do when he got there. He and Sam had turned over Mullins’ house from top to bottom and hadn’t shaken anything loose except for Dean’s peace of mind. He grimaced and pressed down harder on the gas, wishing that he dared turn on the radio so that he didn’t have to sit here alone with his thoughts. But he didn’t want to chance waking Sam up.

The bomb thing had been harder on his brother, maybe because Sam had been the one with his hands on the C-4. And Dean—cowardly, selfish fuck that he was—had stood back and let his little brother do it. Hadn’t seen how much it had screwed the kid up until Sam was asking for _another_ promise and all but telling him that this was it, that they’d reached the end of the road. And Dean had just…snapped. Had hit Sam so hard in the face that he’d split his knuckles open.

That little scuffle had snapped Sam out of his bleak mood, had given him some measure of determination, but Dean didn’t know how long it was going to last. Sam wasn’t used to this kind of thing. Wasn’t used to seeing how nasty and brutal people could be. Wasn’t used to being a target. Dean wasn’t all that comfortable with the target part, either, but nothing people did to each other surprised him anymore.

Mullins, though. Mullins had crossed the line when he killed Ellen. Had shattered it to pieces tonight when he’d pushed Sam to the breaking point. And Dean was going to make sure that he couldn’t hurt anyone else.

Sam moaned suddenly in his sleep and Dean reached over. Put a steadying hand on the back of his brother’s neck. Sam tensed for a second and then relaxed, drifting deeper, beyond the reach of dreams. When Dean turned his attention back to the road, he knew where he was going.

Harvelle’s. He’d drop Sam off, then leave and draw Mullins’ fire on his own. Sam shouldn’t have to deal with this any longer: shouldn’t have to see how it ended. It was going to be bloody, and painful, and sickening, and Dean wasn’t going to let Sam see that. He’d have to be smart about ditching the kid, though: maybe distract him with Jo, grab a few hours head start before Sam even noticed he was gone.

Dean gunned the accelerator again, eager to put some miles behind them now that he had a game plan. As the speedometer topped seventy, there was an alien clicking from the dashboard. Dean frowned down at it, easing off a little and wondering what the fuck had gone wrong with his car. A second later, he had his answer when the clicking turned over into a hissing and white smoke flooded out from the vents.

Except, as Dean drew in a quick, startled breath, he realized that it wasn’t smoke: it was gas.

Son of a bitch had rigged his car.

Dean slammed his foot down on the break, and the Impala shuddered. Sam came awake instantly, blinking in surprise at the white cloud that was rapidly filling the car. Then his eyes went wide as surprise slid into panic. “Fuck!” he snapped.

Dean kept one hand on the wheel, trying to hold the Impala steady, and leaned across Sam to the passenger door. His fingertips brushed the handle and then his hand closed around it and he shoved the door open. Saw woods rolling past frighteningly close and jerked the wheel to the left.

Sam was coughing now, moving one hand up to cover his nose and mouth. Dean’s own throat felt slick, and there was an uncomfortable tickle that threatened to turn into a burn at any moment. Only a few seconds had passed and they were still slowing down, the Impala’s wheels skidding on the pavement, making them fishtail wildly.

Dean pulled back a little to pop his brother’s seatbelt loose and Sam grabbed after it, hands clumsy and slow. Probably worried about crashing. Dean wasn’t really feeling all that together himself anymore, but he concentrated and said firmly, “Let your body go loose when you hit and then roll with it.” The engine cut out suddenly with a rough cough and they were coasting.

Sam glanced at him with startled, reddening eyes and then Dean shoved him sideways. He tumbled out the door, all disoriented limbs and limp muscles, and then he was gone. Dean straightened and hoped that they’d been going slow enough that Sam would be okay other than a few scrapes and bruises.

He was having trouble thinking now, and couldn’t really see past the tears that stung his eyes. It felt like there was a weight on his chest, like he couldn’t get enough air, and the world seemed to be receding in the distance. His throat burned as he fumbled in his lap for his own seatbelt.

It took Dean a few moments to realize that he wasn’t moving anymore: that the Impala was resting half on the road and half on the grass meridian that ran down the center of the highway. Over the hiss of the gas, he could hear a car squealing to a stop next to him, and ignored it because he had finally located the clasp on his seatbelt. He thumbed it open and then reached for the door, moving slow and stupid. It came open before he could touch it and someone was there, leaning in.

Hands slid underneath Dean’s arms, pulled him out of the car. He gasped in fresh, uncontaminated air. Then Dean’s rescuer lay him down on the grass. His head spun, making his stomach lurch alarmingly.

“Sammy,” he choked out. “My brother…help…”

“Shh, Dean. I’ve got you.”

Panic surged in Dean violently because he knew that voice. He tried to struggle away and managed a feeble flop that rolled him onto his side, where he was suddenly and unexpectedly sick. Mullins held his shoulders as he puked, thumbs stroking in tiny circles.

“Sammy,” Dean muttered. God, where was Sam? Had Mullins hit him? Run him over? Was he already dead? But it was hard to think with the gas in his system, turning the world inside out and trying to tip him over into unconsciousness. He realized absurdly that he could feel the night dew seeping in through his jeans.

“Don’t worry.” Mullins sounded obscenely cheerful. “It’s almost over.”

“Fu—” But then Dean was coughing, his whole body shaking with the force of it. He was helpless: couldn’t even swear at the man properly. He felt one of the hands on his shoulders lift.

“This’ll only hurt for a second,” Mullins said soothingly. He bent Dean’s head to the side, and there was a sharp sting in his neck: a needle. Mullins pumping more shit into his body, drugging him. Killing him.

Dean felt his heart beat three more times and then a warm, white wave dragged him down into oblivion.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean’s first thought was that he wasn’t dead. Then he realized that he was thirsty, sore, and lying on something hard and cold. He remained motionless for a while, letting everything come back to him—the bomb, driving on that empty highway, the gas in the car, Mullins jamming a needle in his neck—and listened for the sounds that would tell him that he wasn’t alone. Silence nestled heavy around him, reassuring, and he cracked one eye open carefully.

He was facing a peeling gray wall, marred with unsightly water stains. Lying on a floor that looked like it hadn’t seen a mop or a broom for at least thirty years. Carefully, Dean turned his head and saw that he was in a small room. Rusting, broken bed frame. Shattered glass in a wire-mesh window that looked out on an overcast sky. The door to the room was missing, and he could see out into the hallway, dark and uninviting. There was an incongruous, new wood table by the door, and Dean could tell that there was something on top of it, but from this angle he couldn’t be sure what it was.

 _Why the hell am I still alive?_ he wondered. And, on the heels of that: _where’s Sam?_

 _Not here_ , came the quick answer to his second question, which meant that Mullins had somehow missed his brother. That Sam, at least, was safe.

Dean sat up slowly, one hand going to his head as the room spun. After a few deep breaths it stopped, and he could feel his body trying to push past the last lingering effects of the drugs. There was still the feeling of moving through sludge as he stumbled to his feet, but the fuzziness was fading with every beat of his heart. Loose fabric brushed against his legs as he shifted his weight and he glanced down. Saw that he wasn’t wearing his own clothes anymore.

Mullins had stripped him and dressed him again in a forest green t-shirt and army-issue fatigues. Had even given him new boots. Which meant that the fucker had found everything, that Dean was unarmed. He swore under his breath, glancing at the door and expecting to find Mullins standing there grinning at him. But the doorway was empty, and his first unobstructed view of the table made Dean’s chest tighten hopefully.

He stepped over to it and ran his hand over the three offerings there. Reassuring himself that he wasn’t imagining things.

Cell phone. Gun. Hunting knife.

Well, now he knew why he was still alive, anyway. Mullins wasn’t through with him: the sick son of a bitch had just wanted to change the playing field. Wanted a challenge. He would have gotten along great with the Benders. The whole lot of them could have swapped hunting stories over coffee.

Dean checked the gun: Browning Hi-Power with a full clip loaded, which meant that he had fifteen shots. The knife was sharp enough to slice his thumb open when he ran it along the edge. Dean felt around in his boots, found a sheath for the blade there, and slid it home. Picked up the cell phone and examined it. The single name in the contact list made Dean’s stomach drop.

Sam. Mullins had taken him after all.

Dean hit the green call button and lifted the gun in his right hand, aiming it at the door. The ringing was shrill in his ear, and an eternity passed before it finally clicked over to an electronic voice that told him the wireless customer he was trying to reach was currently unavailable. Dean’s mouth was dry as he dialed the number again. Waited another eternity and then tried again, feeling the faint stirrings of panic in his gut. On his fourth try, someone finally picked up.

“‘Lo?”

“Sam,” Dean breathed, and all the tension ran out of his body. Still alive. His brother was still alive.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice sounded wrong: his speech was slow and slurred. “You okay?”

“Fucking great, man.” Dean let out a shaky laugh. “How’re you?”

“I feel sick.”

“Yeah, I know. It’s the drugs; it’ll pass, okay?”

“No, really sick. Can’t…I can’t make my eyes focus.” Sam sounded a little more alert now, but panic was threading into his voice, and that wasn’t good. “I feel like I’m gonna throw up.”

“Sam. Sammy, I need you to concentrate, man. Are you hurt? Is anything broken?” _God, please let him be okay._

“Don’t think so. But it’s kinda hard to…to think.” There was a heavy swallowing sound. “Dean, I can’t…why can’t I see? It’s…everything’s so blurry, and I can’t—”

“It’s okay, Sammy. Mullins dosed us with something and it’s messing with your head a little, but you’re gonna be fine.” Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair, trying to keep the uncertainty out of his voice. Had Mullins given Sam a different cocktail, or were the drugs just hitting him harder? No way for Dean to know, not without getting Sam to a hospital first. “ Right now I need you to try and focus. Can you do that? Can you tell me where you are?”

“Um. Looks abandoned. Old…old hospital, maybe?”

Dean glanced back at the wire mesh over the window, at the bed, and noticed for the first time that there were rotting leather straps attached to the frame. Sam was right, they were in an old hospital: an abandoned asylum, to be exact. Which was great. Dean had so much fun in the last one they’d visited.

“Okay, listen: I think we’re in the same place, just different rooms.” Dean edged over to the window and glanced out. Found himself looking into an overgrown, open area that must have been an exercise yard when the place was still in use. He could see the twisted remains of what had probably been pull-up bars or part of a swing set: lumps of crumbled stone benches. “Can you find the window?”

“Yeah. Yeah, hold on.” There was a pause and then Sam said, “I’m there. There’s some kind of screen over it. Feels loose.”

“Can you push it out?” Dean scanned the rows of windows intently, looking for signs of movement.

“Hold…hold on.” There was a click as Sam put the phone down and then Dean heard the sound of metal grating against stone. From one of the windows on the top floor of the opposite side of the courtyard, a square piece of wire mesh came loose and tumbled to the ground. Thank God Mullins hadn’t put Sam in one of the outside rooms, or Dean didn’t know how he would have found him.

“Okay.” Sam’s voice was back. “Now what?”

“I’m gonna come get you, okay? I want you to wait there for me.”

Dean was already moving back toward the door when Sam asked, “What…what if he gets here before you do?”

Shit. Dean hadn’t thought of that. Mullins had put them here, which meant that he knew exactly where they were. Was just biding his time. “Damn it!” Dean swore, slamming his hand against the flaking wall. _Think, you fucking asshole._

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was tentative and a little pleading.

“Okay,” Dean said hoarsely. “There’s probably a gun on the table where you found the cell phone. Get it and find somewhere to hide. Don’t…don’t leave the floor you’re on though, okay?”

“I don’t think I could manage stairs right now anyway,” Sam confessed. Then he swore, gasping in pain.

“Sam? Sam!”

“S’okay. I’m fine. I just…I cut my hand on something. I think there’s a knife here too.”

 _God, I’m a fucking retard._ Dean pressed his eyes shut. “Sorry; I should have warned you.”

“No, it’s okay. I…I’ve got the gun and I’m leaving the room.”

“Okay. Don’t hang up.” Dean edged to the door of his own room and peered cautiously into the hallway. Empty, shadowed, and cluttered with debris that had been left behind when they closed up shop. He could hear Sam’s erratic breathing through the phone as he edged out.

The last remnants of the drugs were gone, which was something to be thankful for. They’d been flushed out of his system by the adrenaline rushing through him. By the fear that came with the knowledge that Sam was alone and drugged with a madman hunting him. Hunting both of them, but Dean at least was in a position to defend himself. Sam was…was helpless, that was what.

Dean slipped cautiously around the corner at the end of the hallway, scanning for signs of movement. He was going to have to find some stairs soon, get up to the same floor Sam was on. He heard his brother’s breath stutter a little—could feel the terror flowing out of Sam and through the phone—and he grimaced. He had to calm Sam down before he worked himself into a panic.

“You ever hear the one about the guy with the duck on his head?” he whispered into the phone.

“What?” Sam’s reply was startled, uncertain. “Dean, did you…did you just ask about a man with a duck?”

And yeah, maybe his question had come out of nowhere, but there was something in Sam’s voice—a quiver—that made Dean ask, “You having hallucinations over there, Sammy?”

“I…” Sam swallowed audibly. “Maybe.”

Dean stopped moving. “Jesus Christ, man, when the hell were you gonna tell me that?”

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Sam answered defensively.

“Well, congradufuckinglations on that front.” Dean shifted his grip on the gun. “How bad is it?”

“I’m okay, Dean, real—”

“ _How bad is it?_ ”

“I…it’s not great.”

This was fucking _fantastic_. Dean had really been jonesing for another challenge because things had been way too easy so far. “Go to ground now,” he ordered. “And don’t move until I get there.”

“I’m not…I don’t know how far I am from where I woke up.”

“I don’t give a shit, Sammy. You get under cover _now_.” Dean started moving again, faster this time. Every millimeter of his skin was itching with the need to run—to get to Sam—but he resisted. It wasn’t going to do either of them any good if he ran right into some nasty trap Mullins had left for them.

“Okay, I’m—” There was a sickening crack and then Sam’s voice, screaming, “ _Jesusfuck_!” A clatter as the phone hit the floor.

Dean’s blood went ice cold. “Sam? Sam, talk to me!”

“Mind your tongue, Sam, or I’ll have to cut it out.” Mullins’ voice, coming through Sam’s phone.

“Sam!” Dean shouted, and now he was running—he was fucking flying through the halls and screw whatever surprises Mullins had set up. There was another muffled crack on the other end of the line and Sam screamed again. Out of the corner of his eye, Dean caught the neat row of stairs through a door to his right. He skidded to a stop and then sprinted into the stairwell.

Sam’s screams had tapered off into harsh sobs, and now he was yelling, “Get out of here, Dean! Just get—” A third heavy thwack cut Sam’s voice off abruptly.

Dean swallowed his heart and dropped the phone. Charged full-speed at the door as he reached the top of the stairs, ramming into it with his right shoulder. Bounced back when it didn’t budge: damned thing was rusted shut.

“ _Fuck_!” Dean snarled, kicking at the door. His kicks reverberated hollowly and did about as much good as blowing on it would have. He gave up and raced back down to the floor below, almost tripping in his haste.

It took Dean a full six minutes to find a clear way up, and by then he was all turned around: didn’t know which way to go. Picked a direction and just started running. But he knew the place instantly when he found it an interminable time later. Knew by the fallen cell phone lying in the middle of the hallway. Knew by the splatter of blood across the overturned gurney. The cooling puddle of blood soaking into the floor.

 _Sam._

Dean fell to his knees in the empty hallway, head dropping into his hands, forehead pressed against the gun he was still holding. _Oh Christ, Sammy, I’m sorry._ There were tears blurring his vision, threatening to spill in a flood. For the first time in his life, shattered and alone, Dean let them come.


	10. Chapter 10

Sam’s world consisted of pain and the overcast sky he was looking up at. He inhaled and choked on a thin trickle of blood running down the back of his throat. Coughed harshly, which jarred his dislocated shoulder and made him cry out. Mullins kicked him in the side, going straight for the kidneys, and suddenly Sam was trying to remember how to breathe. He was rolled over onto his face and he lay there limply, gasping into the brown grass and weeds.

Mullins was tying something around his wrists, wrenching his injured shoulder a little as he did so, but the pain didn’t matter so much anymore because Dean was crouched next to Sam, hands resting lightly on his denim-clad thighs. _Dean_ , Sam tried to say. _Help me_. His mouth dropped open but no sound came out. He tasted dirt and blood on his lips.

“You really messed up this time, Sammy,” Dean said. And his eyes were dark, his smile cruel.

“Dean…” Sam tried again, and this time he managed to exhale his brother’s name. Dean shot him a look of pure disgust and then dissolved into thin air. Just another hallucination, then. He was alone. Dean wasn’t coming. Sam wanted to sob when he felt Mullins’ breath hot on his cheek.

“He hasn’t arrived yet, but I imagine he’s on the way. Let’s give him a good show, shall we?”

“Ngh,” Sam moaned, and then tossed his head and screamed as Mullins stepped away. The man had fastened ropes around Sam’s wrists and he was pulling him across the ground, twisting Sam’s left shoulder further out of place. Mullins dragged him over a crumbled piece of stone and Sam’s shattered knee bounced against it, drawing another cry from his throat.

“That’s it, Sam.” Mullins’ voice was soft, coaxing. “Nice and loud. Let your brother hear you sing.”

They stopped and there was a soft sound Sam couldn’t identify. Then he was being lifted, drawn up by the rope around his wrists until he was dangling off the ground, all of his weight straining at his shoulders. He whited out for a few seconds, and when the pain had receded enough for him to see again, Mullins was standing in front of him. Sam regarded the man warily with one eye: blood had filmed over his vision on the right.

Mullins was holding the wooden baton again: the same one he’d surprised Sam with in the hallway. Sam could see his own blood coating the business end of the thing. Mullins hefted it, smiling broadly, and Sam couldn’t help himself. Let a whimper slip from his lips.

He didn’t remember much of what Mullins had done to him before: only that first blow, slamming low into his knee. There had been the sound of bone shattering and Sam’s consciousness narrowed to a pinpoint of screaming red. He couldn’t picture Mullins swinging the baton down again, but the man must have done so because something had dislocated Sam’s shoulder, and something had clipped him in the head hard enough to knock him unconscious. Hard enough to draw blood, too: the right side of his face was caked with it.

“Now remember what I said, Sam,” Mullins said encouragingly. “You go ahead and be as vocal—as _loud_ —as you want.”

No. God no, please. And as Mullins wound himself up, Sam thought, _I won’t scream. I won’t bring Dean here. I won’t scream don’t scream oh Christ don’t please don’t_

Mullins swung the baton. Sam rocked back from the force of the blow, the jolt sending fire and lightning through his shoulder and knee. And he did what Mullins wanted. He screamed nice and loud.

“There’s a boy,” Mullins murmured. And then he was laying into Sam in earnest, and it was all he could manage to keep drawing air.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean sat in the hallway where his brother had died. At some point he’d slipped from his knees forward onto his hands, and one of them had landed in Sam’s blood. He’d jerked back, fallen against the wall and left red handprints when he clutched for balance. The gun lay on the floor next to him, forgotten, and if Mullins had come up behind him just then, Dean wouldn’t even have blinked. Would have just sat there and let the sick fuck shoot him. But the hallway stayed empty, and the third time the sound came, it finally penetrated the numb blanket that had dropped over him.

Screaming. Sam’s voice.

Dean was scrambling to his feet and bolting into the nearest room, and every nerve in his body felt like it was on fire. It was a measure of how fucked up the situation was that he was relieved—was fucking _thrilled_ —to hear Sam screaming. Because Sam screaming meant that Sam was still alive. Meant that there was still a chance the Dean could save him. Then Dean slammed to a stop at the window and time crystallized.

Mullins had strung Sam up by his wrists in the center of the courtyard, using that rusted metal frame that Dean had noticed earlier. Dean could tell from the way his brother was hanging that his left shoulder had been dislocated, and Sam’s left knee was swollen enough that Dean could see it from here: could tell that it was pressed tight against the fatigues his brother was wearing. Blood matted Sam’s hair to the right side of his face and dripped into his eye. Dean wasn’t close enough to tell for sure, but he thought that his little brother might be crying.

Mullins, standing in front of Sam with his back to Dean, was bigger than Dean had expected: at least as tall as Sam, and bulkier. A massive bear of a man with short brown hair. He was wearing the same clothing that he’d dressed both Dean and Sam in, and there was an oversized police baton in his right hand.

As Dean tried to start his brain again, Mullins stepped forward and swung the baton into Sam’s stomach. Sam swung with the impact like some kind of bloody piñata and gave a wordless shout, his head falling back. Mullins paused for a second, adjusting his grip on the baton, and then he moved in again and there weren’t any more pauses. There was only the sound of Sam screaming. Only the sight of Mullins’ arm rising and falling as the fuck brought the baton down everywhere he could reach.

Dean jolted loose from his shock when Mullins slammed the baton into Sam’s swollen knee and his brother’s voice gave out. He didn’t know how long he’d been standing there watching, trying to push through the shock and the horror so that he could think enough to do something, but it had been too long. One second would have been too long.

Dean scrambled into the hallway and grabbed the gun from the floor where he’d left it. Sprinted back to the window, flipping the safety off as he went.

Mullins had dropped the baton while he’d been gone, and now the sick bastard was picking something up from the ground. Something long and thin: a metal rod that might have once been a part of the superstructure Sam was hanging from.

Dean raised the gun and sighted down the barrel as Mullins advanced on Sam again. He had to be careful: at this distance, and with an unfamiliar gun, it would be all too easy to hit his brother by accident. Dean imagined a target high in the center of Mullins’ back, somewhere he could be sure to hit something vital, and took a steadying breath. Then he pulled the trigger.

Felt the gun kick and saw Mullins lunge at the same moment. Saw the metal rod slip into Sam’s stomach like a knife into butter. Saw Mullins keep moving forward, saw him falling face-first onto the ground.

 _Sammy Sammy Sammy_ , Dean’s mind was screaming, but he made himself finish the job. Emptied the rest of the clip in Mullins’ broad back. Then he leaned out the window, mesh blown out by the first shot he’d taken, and yelled, “I’m coming, Sammy! Just hang on!”

And then he was sprinting back into a maze of corridors, grabbing the cell phone lying by the pool of Sam’s blood on his way past: Sam was going to need medical attention and fast. Dean dialed Ash’s number from memory as he searched for a way down to his brother. Gave Ash a terse rundown of the situation when he picked up and told him to trace the call, to have the police send an emergency copter to their location.

By the time Dean managed to find a door that opened on the courtyard, Ash was assuring him that the cavalry was on the way. Would be there in less than fifteen minutes. Dean didn’t bother responding, just dropped the phone in a patch of dense grass and sprinted across the yard toward his brother. He glanced at Mullins’ body as he drew up next to Sam, a quick check to make sure that the man was good and down, and then swept his eyes across his brother.

Sam’s breathing was shallow, and he was unconscious, which Dean could only think was a damned good thing. Because his brother’s left arm had gone purple from shoulder to elbow, and his knee was grossly swollen. There was blood seeping out around the edge of the metal rod that ran through the right side of Sam’s abdomen; blood and the shock white of bone protruding from his left thigh. The line of exposed skin along Sam’s stomach was bruised to hell, and Dean found himself worrying about internal bleeding. About ruptured organs that could be killing Sam with every moment that passed.

“Fuck, Sammy.” Dean’s hands fluttered over toward the rope where Mullins had tied it off and then drew back. He wanted to get Sam down, couldn’t stand leaving him strung up there, but he knew enough first aid to know that moving Sam would only hurt him more. That he could kill his brother trying to take him down.

“Goddamn it,” Dean breathed. His eyes were tearing. “God fucking damn it all to hell.”

“I warned you about your language.” And that was all the warning Dean had before Mullins slammed into him from behind, hitting him low and driving him to the ground. Dean’s head came down hard on a rock and his vision swam black. He felt Mullins moving up his body. Tried to toss the man off and couldn’t figure out how to move his limbs.

“You didn’t think it’d be that easy, did you, Dean?” Mullins asked. He settled his weight on Dean’s chest, one hand gripping Dean’s chin and the other brandishing a serrated knife.

“You filled the gun with blanks, you cheating fuck,” Dean moaned, and Mullins drove the knife through his shoulder and into the ground. Dean arched up, a loud string of curses spilling from his lips, and Mullins shoved him back down, hand still curled around the knife’s hilt.

“Language,” he hissed

“Fuck you. You fucking cheated, you—” His words cut off in a shout as Mullin twisted the knife inside him, grating metal on bone.

“I don’t cheat,” Mullin said coldly. “You really think I’d be stupid enough to give you a gun and then come stand out here without any protection?”

Fuck. Bastard was wearing a vest. He’d known that Dean would try to waste him from a distance, that he wouldn’t try for a head shot out of fear that he might hit Sam instead. Son of a bitch had used Sam as bait. Had set Dean up.

Mullins nodded, smiling as he saw the knowledge rise in Dean’s eyes. “You’re so predictable, Dean. Make Sam sing and you come running to the rescue. So noble. So brave. So stupid.” He yanked the knife free and Dean howled as it scraped along his shoulder blade. “I’m gonna carve you up like a Christmas goose, and by the time the paramedics you undoubtedly called arrive, they’ll have to pack whatever’s left of you and Sam over there up in little plastic bags.”

Mullins was laughing smugly, knife dangling from one hand, the other digging into the corners of Dean’ jaw. He looked amused. Looked entertained. Looked like someone who’d won. Dean could see Sam over Mullin’s shoulder, limp and bloody. Broken like some kid’s old toy. Mullins’ eyes sparkling. Sam’s blood dripping down the side of his face.

Something deep inside of Dean snapped open and darkness came flooding out, cold and calm. He was going to die. He was going to die, and that was okay because he was going to take this son of a bitch along for the ride. He and Mullins were going to fall screaming together down into Hell.

Suddenly his shoulder didn’t hurt anymore.

“Don’t be ashamed,” Mullins said. He was sliding the knife down Dean’s left arm, peeling back the skin as he went, and all Dean felt was the chill of the blade. “You two were the best challenge I’ve had in a long time.”

There was silence inside Dean as he slid his legs up so that his feet were flat on the ground. Stillness as he bucked up, sending Mullins tumbling off and over to the right. Dean grabbed for the knife in his boot and rolled to his feet with it in his right hand. Tried to lift his left arm and then gave it up as useless when nothing happened: Mullins had fucked up the muscles in his shoulder too much. Didn’t matter, though. Dean only needed one arm to do this.

Mullins pushed himself up, his eyes shining with good cheer. Dean noticed that they were blue. Blue like the ocean. “That’s it. Fight. Make me work for it.”

Dean didn’t bother with words: he didn’t know if he was capable of them. He knew that Mullins was expecting him to feint, to circle and look for an opening. It was the tactically smart thing to do if you wanted to win. If you wanted to live. But Dean was already dead, was laying down his life so that Sam would have a chance, so he ignored the knife in Mullins’ hand and charged forward. Focused himself to a narrow strip of skin in the man’s throat.

He felt the impact when he hit Mullins. Felt something slide in between his ribs and lodge there, a frigid cold. But that was distant, unimportant, because there was a wet spray on Dean’s face as his own knife caught Mullins along the side of his throat, opening skin and spilling blood like rain.

Mullins staggered back, one hand coming up to cup the wound. His eyes were wild, disbelieving. Dean offered him a feral grin, advancing as Mullins fell back.

Mullins had lost his knife—left it lodged in Dean’s side—and now he brought a gun around from the small of his back. Dean lunged as Mullins fired. Felt the bullet graze his cheek and then he was crashing down onto the ground, Mullins beneath him.

Mullins’ blade wedged deeper inside him as they landed and Dean barely noticed. He had his own knife pressed up in the soft, vulnerable spot beneath Mullins’ jaw. Mullins’ hand came up around Dean’s, tried to push him away, and Dean leaned forward. Put his weight behind the thrust.

The knife slid in, quick and smooth, and Mullins jittered underneath Dean as the tip punched through his skull and continued on into his brain. His hand fell away from Dean’s and his eyes bulged. His mouth worked soundlessly, open and close, open and close. Dean pulled the knife back a little and dug until he uncovered spine, wet and slick.

See the fucker get up from that.

Dean released the knife and rolled off of Mullins’ body. Came to his knees and glanced down at his side where the knife handle protruded. For a moment, he considered pulling it out, and then decided that it would be too much of a bother.

He managed to regain his feet and staggered back to Sam. Back to his brother. Almost fell into Sam before he caught himself. Swaying, he reached out and pressed his fingers against Sam’s throat. Found a pulse there, slow but present, and nodded to himself.

“Hang in there, Sammy,” he murmured. “Help…help’s coming.”

And then his legs gave out and he collapsed at his brother’s feet. He stared at the dying weeds in front of him, splattered with blood. Maybe his, maybe Sam’s. “Don’t die,” Dean muttered into the earth, and then his eyes slid shut and the world fell away.


	11. Chapter 11

Sam fumbled back to awareness and immediately wished he hadn’t. His entire body was a wash of pain, with sharper beacons of agony in his knee, thigh and stomach. He couldn’t feel his shoulder at all anymore.

There was wind everywhere, whipping Sam’s hair into his face and obscuring his vision. A load roaring in his ears, drowning everything out. Drowning his own scattered thoughts out. Someone above him, someone’s hands moving over his chest. Sam couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman because his? (her?) face was mostly hidden by an oxygen mask. Their eyes met for a second—green eyes, intent and worried, boring into his own—and then Sam felt everything trying to slide away again. He breathed out and let it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Second time he opened his eyes was no better. It was too bright, blinding him, and there was a rush of noise around him—people talking, shouting about blood pressure and oxygen and mixed in it somewhere Sam could hear Dean’s voice. Could hear Dean shouting, demanding to know what was going on and being told to stay still. Heard someone calling for restraints.

It was difficult to breathe and there was liquid in his throat, choking him. He tried to breathe in and coughed instead, felt a wet spray into the mask attached to his face. Someone in blue hospital scrubs was leaning over him and now they yelled, “We’ve got blood in the airway!” Everything sped, rushing around him in a dizzying blur.

And then Sam was falling again, sliding down into the dark where it was quiet.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“…you can’t be in here. You shouldn’t even be out of bed!”

“Fuck off, lady. That’s my brother.” Dean. That was Dean’s voice.

“I’m getting security.”

“You do that.”

Sam wanted to open his eyes, wanted to see his brother standing there, and couldn’t. He didn’t remember how to work anything, and he was too tired anyway. But then there was a hand on his arm, squeezing tight enough that it would have hurt, if Sam hadn’t already been hurting too much everywhere else to be able to feel it.

“Sammy,” Dean breathed. “God, Sammy, don’t …” There was a choked, wet sound, and then Dean said, harshly, “If you die on me, I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

Sam wanted to tell him that that was stupid, that it didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t think. Couldn’t hold on.

And then there was nothing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“… not moving him!” Dean’s voice pulled him to the edge of awareness again. Sam lay nestled in a cocoon of pain and listened.

“You can’t stay here, Dean, you know that. Any day now, the police could—” Sam knew that voice too. Associated it with books and cars and Dad, but couldn’t come up with a name.

“Fuck ‘em. And fuck Hendrickson.”

“He gets his hands on you, and you’re gonna be in a world of trouble. Richards’ll take good care of Sam. We wouldn’t move him if he wasn’t safe to move.”

“He hasn’t even woken up yet! They don’t know if he’s—You’re not moving him, goddamn it.”

“We don’t have a choice. Now just sit down. You’re gonna pull your stitches.”

“No! You can’t—it isn’t safe, it isn’t …”

Sam drifted deeper.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He was pleasantly warm and, for once, it was quiet. The pain was still there, but it was manageable. Sam opened his eyes.

Dim room. Steady beep of a machine by his head. Top of an IV at the edge of his vision.

Sam shifted his head to one side and saw a blue wall. Tried the other way and found Dean sprawled in a ratty, oversized armchair. There was a shallow cut on one of Dean’s cheeks and an ugly looking lump on his forehead. He was wearing some kind of green bathrobe that was way too short on him. His eyes were closed and he was snoring softly, drooling out one side of his mouth.

 _Dean_ , Sam tried to say, and nothing came out. He swallowed, concentrated, and tried again. “Dean.”

Dean shifted a little, frowning. Wiped at his mouth absently.

“Dean,” Sam said again, louder.

Dean woke up and looked at him. For a long moment, his face was empty, his eyes dull. Then he blinked and leaned forward. “Sammy?”

“Hey, man,” Sam breathed.

“How’re you…do you hurt? You want something?” His eyes were wide and shining with so much relief it almost hurt to look at him. Sam wanted to ask what had happened, where Mullins was, but couldn’t find the courage.

“I’m okay,” he said instead, which was a lie, but he wasn’t going to let them shove him back into the dark with painkillers. “How long was I out for?”

“Couple…” Dean cleared his throat. “Couple of weeks.”

That wasn’t a good sign, but his own condition was right up there with Mullins on the list of things Sam didn’t want to think about. He glanced around the room, taking in the closet and the bureau by the wall, and asked, “Where are we?”

“Still in Vermont.” A tear slid down Dean’s cheek, quickly followed by another. “F-friend of Bobby’s. We had to m-move before Hendrickson g-got wind of u-us.”

“Are you _crying_?” Sam asked, surprised.

“What? N-no, of course not.” Dean swiped at his eyes with the back of one hand and scowled.

“You totally are.” Sam smiled slightly. “You’re such a girl.”

“Am not.”

“Are—I’m not falling for that,” Sam told him, and Dean barked a low laugh. Sam tried to sit up and spears of agony went through his body, almost driving him under again. When he could focus, Dean was standing next to him, one hand on top of Sam’s, threading their fingers together, and his other hanging limp at his side. Sam glanced down at their entwined hands.

“Does this mean we’re going steady?”

Dean didn’t laugh, and his hand tightened on Sam’s. “You almost died.” He said it like an accusation, and Sam sighed. Figured that the one time he’d been perfectly happy ignoring the elephant in the room, Dean had to go all touchy-feely on him.

“I know,” he said. “Still not feeling so hot.”

“I can get the doctor,” Dean offered quickly. “Get you something for the—”

“No. Not yet. Just … just stay here, okay? Just for a few minutes?” He felt like he was five years old again, begging Dean to stay with him while he shivered through a nasty case of the flu.

“Sure.” But Dean took his hand back and sat down in the chair again. He winced as he put his left arm on the armrest.

“You’re hurt?” Sam asked anxiously.

“You’re one to talk.” Dean frowned, right hand ghosting over his side. “I’m fine.”

“You’re a shitty liar. What happened?”

Dropping his eyes from Sam’s, Dean shrugged. “Just a few scratches. Mullins nicked me once or twice.”

Sam flinched at the name. “Is he …” He faltered and then made himself ask, “Is he dead?”

“Yeah, Sammy,” Dean said, and he still wouldn’t meet Sam’s eyes. Hunched a little deeper into the chair. “He’s dead.”

“How?”

“Cut his throat.” Dean’s voice was flat, emotionless.

“Okay. Thanks, man. You know, for—”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean shrugged uncomfortably

The mood had already been killed, so Sam figured it wouldn’t matter if he brought it down a little further. Asked the other question he’d been avoiding. “So how am I?”

Dean’s face twitched, and he climbed to his feet. “I’d better get the doc—”

“Dean, _don’t_. Just tell me, okay? How bad is it?”

Dean sighed and laid it out for him. And yeah, it was pretty bad. Bad enough that it made Sam sick to his stomach just to hear it. Bad enough that he wasn’t sure how the hell the doctors had managed to piece him back together. Down to one kidney. New, plastic kneecap to replace the one Mullins had shattered. A whole host of other unpleasant revelations.

“That everything?” Sam asked when Dean ground to a halt. He felt lightheaded: a little lost.

Dean nodded. “We can do this, though. Okay, Sammy? We can do this.”

And because it was Dean, Sam believed him.


	12. Epilogue

Almost six months to the day after Sam woke up and stayed up, he dropped to the floor, saturated with sweat and trembling. He and Dean had just come back inside from a three-mile run; the first Sam had been able to finish without breaks. Now all he wanted to do was lie there and pass out.

Dean nudged him in the side with one foot. “Dude, you are so out of shape.”

“I’m an invalid, man,” Sam panted. “Give me a break!”

“Doc gave you a clean bill of health, Sammy, remember? You’re all mine now.” Dean dropped to the floor next to him, eyes bright and smile wide and entirely too energetic for Sam’s well being. “Now roll over and give me twenty.”

Sam groaned. “You’re a fucking Nazi, you know that?”

“Oh, cry me a river.” Dean poked him in the side, hard, with one finger. “Twenty pushups. Then fifty crunches. Three sets.”

What was Dean trying to do, kill him? “Make me,” Sam grunted.

“I don’t have to. Know why?” Sadistic jerk was grinning at him.

“Why?” Sam asked warily.

“Cause you’re too fucking stubborn to wuss out on me.” And he pushed himself to his feet and strolled away into the kitchen. “I’ll order some pizza. Should be here by the time you’re done and then we can eat.”

Sam was just going to lie here and Dean could go to hell. And he could take his fucking drills and PT with him. Asshole was worse than Dad ever had been. Sam stared at the ceiling for about five seconds and then sighed and rolled over, mouth set in a stubborn frown. He hated it when Dean was right.

“I don’t hear you counting!” Dean called from the kitchen.

“One,” Sam said loudly. “Two … three …” Sweat poured off his skin, dripping onto the hardwood floor. His muscles burned and trembled, and his lungs ached. He was going to be paying for this in spades tomorrow.

But damn it felt good to be alive.


End file.
